


Hackamore

by MonoclePony



Series: Saddles and Stirrups [5]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Jean Kirstein/Marlow Freudenberg, M/M, No Reins, abusive relationship (JeanxMarlow), equestrian AU, equine trauma, horse riding AU, lots of horses, no homo Marco, yes homo Jean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-08 18:35:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 72,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3219221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonoclePony/pseuds/MonoclePony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The equine world is bloodthirsty and cut-throat: this is what Jean Kirschtein learns from the outset. His father runs the elite Trost Riding Academy, a chance for those who can afford it to ride the best-class and highest quality mares and geldings from across the country and compete in competitions to make their names. Winning is prized above all else- but that's not what on Jean's mind. After meeting a nervous yet beautiful boy at a local showgrounds and seeing his giant black horse stop for him in a moment of madness, Jean knows /exactly/ where he wants to be spending the summer. He sees the potential the shy boy with freckles hides from everyone else, and is determined to get his nerve back before the summer ends. </p>
<p>But he didn't factor in the possibility that the anxious freckled idiot known as Marco Bodt was cute. </p>
<p>Like, stupidly cute. </p>
<p>Not to mention that Jean has his own demons to fight...</p>
<p>Hackamore is a story about the side no one saw, the side that has the bruises and anger and horses behaving badly- but Marco Bodt makes everything worthwhile.</p>
<p>((this is Jean's pov of No Reins. If you haven't read it yet, I suggest you do so before you start this!))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Life's like the road that you travel on

**Author's Note:**

  * For [irislullaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/irislullaby/gifts), [theprophetlemonade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprophetlemonade/gifts).



> *nervous laughter* I can't leave this au alone I'm sorry *lies on the ground*   
> But this is Hackamore, this is Jean's side of the story, and I assure you that it won't be a walk in the park. But it'll hopefully be enjoyable, and you'll get a lot of laughs along the way!   
> This opening chapter is a very belated birthday present for the wonderful irislullaby, but this is a gift to everyone who loved No Reins and kept going til the end. And, obviously, to theprophetlemonade, because you two are my travelling salespeople for No Reins and I love you both dearly <3   
> And a biiiig thank you to the twitsquad, cus you guys are awesome and I wouldn't be motivating myself to write without your words of encouragement <3 
> 
> So...enjoy guys, and expect another chapter soon :)
> 
> Tumblr: www.attackonmyponderland.tumblr.com

_So, you know the story. Guy has horse, guy has terrible experience and is scared of horse, one perfect idiot waltzes into his life and turns everything the guy knows upside down. Guy competes in big competitions, guy is finally happy with his life. Sounds like some sort of sappy romance bullshit, doesn’t it? I guess it kinda was._

_You know his battle, and trust me it **was** a battle… but you don’t know mine. And maybe it’s selfish, asking you to sit down and listen to the whole thing all over again, but it’s not like that. I swear. Maybe a little. But mainly not. _

_Contrary to popular belief, I had a life outside Marco Bodt, even if he eventually ended up at its centre. I had to fight my own demons. Trust me, it isn’t pretty- I’d never pretend that it was. But it was worth it to me, to get where I am now… I just hope he feels it was worth it too._

* * *

Jean Kirschtein wasn’t sure what constituted a gleaming school record, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t sneaking into the school kitchens at some godforsaken hour of the morning and nearly clearing it out of food with his entire dorm. He couldn’t help it; the urge to be rebellious ignited in the pit of his belly as he tried (and failed) to study that evening, and it only took a couple of raised eyebrows and elbow nudges to get a few more guys on side. And who was he to know that there was a stash of near-priceless sherry the headmaster saved for special occasions in one of the easy to reach cupboards? It was a case of take what you find, though when the head of dorm opened the door in the morning to see the entire inhabitants of his dorm slumped on the floor dizzily passing the stained glass bottle to one another, he hadn’t taken it _that_ well.

It was a good thing it was the last day.

It was a good thing he was leaving anyway.

He slumped down in the backseat of the Mercedes with a barely audible sigh, hating how spotless it was, and tried to ignore the rant his father was halfway through in the front. The passenger seat was empty. Jean never sat up front. “-can’t believe you did that, and of all places, did you know how expensive that alcohol was? No, you didn’t, because you’re a damn teenager with no head on his shoulders, you should have at least chosen a cheaper kind, you stupid-”

Yeah, yeah. Stupid, idiot, damn teenager, been there, heard that. Jean just slumped down lower and watched the grey and green world whiz by as they left the ornate grounds of an illustrious learning institution (‘steeped in tradition’ as his father often reminded him) and approached the slightly different shade of grey that was Trost. At least they lived on the outskirts. Cities were too stifling.

“Jean, are you listening to a word I’m saying?” came his father’s holler from the front seat.

Jean straightened up. He knew the right words. “Yes, Dad,” he answered on autopilot. “I shouldn’t have done it. I regret it. I’m sorry.”

“You better be! I can’t have you going around causing trouble like a common brat. You’re a Kirschtein, and you need to start acting like one. Acting more mature, too. You’re not fourteen anymore, for Christ’s sake.”

Jean wanted to ask if his father even knew how old he was, but thought it was probably best he didn’t. He shifted up onto the seat and crossed his legs underneath him, trying to keep his attention on the window and not on the words that felt branded into his skin by now. They used to smart and stay there ingrained into his skin, but now they only seemed to burn for a little while. It was already too scarred to do much damage. He shuffled around, trying to shake off the awkward feeling that settled whenever he was confined to a small space with his father. “How are the horses?” he asked after a few moments of curt silence.

That was the only thing he did care about. Jean Kirschtein cared about horses. He wasn’t sure when the obsession with them had started; his father had shares in a racehorse when Jean was small, and he got taken to the track to see it run sometimes. Maybe that was what got him in love with the power and elegance horses seemed to exhibit with every movement, the intelligence that shone in their eyes that suggested they knew exactly what was going on, and the thunder that was created under their hooves. Whether that was it or not, even if that racehorse with no name didn’t come to anything, the love for the animals definitely had. Jean hadn’t realised how much his father liked horses too until they were moving to a place out in the countryside and bringing in the most purely bred creatures in the country. _That was just how life went being the son of Jacques Kirschtein_ , Jean thought as he felt his pocket buzz with the promise of a text.

“They’re alright,” was his father’s curt reply. “Training well.”

“How’s Buchwald?” Jean asked, his chest lightening a fraction at the thought of his favourite. Buchwald was being broken in before he’d got carted off to the boarding school. He was home-bred, and Jean was sure he hadn’t fallen in love with a horse as quick as he had with the chocolate coloured colt.

His father didn’t respond for a while. Then he said, “He’s not training so well.”

Jean felt the light feeling drop from the sky like a shot down bird. “W-what? What do you mean, what is he-”

“What I mean is that the colt won’t win a damn thing in his life,” Jacques said. He turned right, and Jean caught a glimpse of the pale line on his ring finger where silver had sat before. “He’s clumsy, he rushes, and he gets the wind up him too quick. He’s a hopeless case, you won’t be bothering with him.”

“But…” Jean expelled his breath in a rush. “You said I could compete at the Jinae showgrounds on him.” It was meant to come out demanding. Angry. Instead, it came out as a whimper.

“I said you could ride him when I thought he had a chance at winning. Since he’s about as much use as a pack mule you won’t be competing anywhere on him.” His father’s words were cold and business-like, and just as Jean remembered them.

“Dad, the Jinae showgrounds are a walk in the park! It’s not like it’s the Wings League, for fuck’s sake!” he protested, but the whine was still there. The weakness of a spoilt little rich boy who was used to getting what he wanted.

“Don’t curse!” Jacques snapped, and Jean quietened. “I don’t care, we cannot have Trost Academy’s reputation tarnished by a bad horse.”

“Levi told me there’s no such thing as a bad horse.”

“Well, Levi isn’t in charge. I am.” Jean got half an icy glare as his father turned his head to lock eyes with him. “I bought a few youngsters from the stud. I picked out one for you, if you want her. She has promise, real promise, and you’ll do great things with her, I’m sure of it. Buchwald is a waste of feed. You’re lucky I didn’t sell the beast when I had the chance.”

Jean’s eyes snapped wider. “You wouldn’t dare!” he snapped. It broke somewhere along the line, and Jean felt the flash of panic course into his system. He saw his father’s eyes widen in the mirror, but then they were back to how they were before. “You can’t sell him. Promise me.”

“Jean-”

“ _Promise.”_

Jacques kept his glare as they swung onto more familiar territory. “Fine,” he conceded as the sign for Trost Riding Academy flashed past them, “but he will work for his keep. We’ll put him in with the yard horses.”

“He’s _my_ horse,” Jean argued.

“No, he is my horse, because I pay for the food he eats and the saddle on his back.” He slowed the car down as they grew nearer so as not to startle the inhabitants grazing in the paddocks either side of them. They went to drive past the stables, but Jean unlocked the passenger door and swung it open. Jacques slammed on the brakes. “Damnit, Jean!” he shouted.

“I thought I wasn’t allowed to curse. Bad example there, old man.”

Jacques shot him a look of utter contempt before slamming the door shut behind his son and Sped off at top speed, spooking one of the dressage prospects in the nursery paddock. Jean shook his head after him, not caring that all his luggage was still bumping away in the back of the car. His father would probably leave it in there and pretend he didn’t know where the key was. Hell if he cared. He faced the yard again, letting the welcoming smell of hay and horse hit his senses, before he half-jogged into the main yard.

Jacques Kirschtein never saw any reason why his son had to be so adamant to help all the time. Jean had the money, the status, to just ride the horses and then throw their reins over to the nearest groom whenever he so liked, but Jean didn’t do that at all. He actually _enjoyed_ being around the horses, enjoyed grooming them so thoroughly that by the end of it he was the one who looked like he’d been rolling around in a muddy field, even liked cleaning out the stalls until they actually looked cosy enough to sleep on himself. And that was precisely what he was looking for as he jogged into the yard. A few horses’ heads were out of their stables, watching him with intrigue, and he went to each of them in turn. “Hey, Rose,” he greeted warmly, letting the little bay mare frisk him for treats. “Gladiator. Killarney. Tempest. How are you guys, huh? Missed me?” He ran through every name like he knew them all personally, every nose that reached for him getting the same gentle tickle. The only stable he would avoid was Sawney, the savage black stallion belonging to Trost Riding Academy’s resident trainer. Levi was the only one who got within striking distance of the beast, and he was the only one deemed worthy by the stallion- anyone else had to dive out of biting range at the best possible moment.

He was still fussing over the horses when he heard hooves on the concrete. He turned- and grinned. The riding class was coming in from their lesson. He recognised them all as they walked one behind the other in rigid formation, all looking tired out. The boy at the front was by far the smallest, his mop of blonde hair completely out of place thanks to the helmet swinging from his free hand. He was leading a leggy roan Jean didn’t recognise, but it seemed to have its own mission of wrenching the boy’s arms out of their sockets. “Armin!” Jean called out.

The blonde glanced up and beamed, all discomfort from the unruly horse forgotten. “Jean!” he said, abandoning the slow amble and charging up to him, his horse chuffing and snorting at the end of the reins. “I didn’t think you were meant to be back from school yet!”

“I don’t think I was,” Jean admitted, but ignored Armin’s concerned face and looked over the roan that was fighting Armin’s hands. “Who’s this?”

“Her name’s Autumn. She was only backed a few months ago, she’s a little… green.” As if to prove his point, the mare spun around on her haunches and tried to nip at the horse behind playfully. Armin’s face went gaunt as he struggled with her. “Bloody thing…s’a menace…”

Jean laughed and tried to give her a pat- which was a feat in itself, as she was throwing her head up at every opportunity. “Has my Dad got a lot of new horses in?” he asked. He remembered what he’d said back in the car.

“A few.” Armin made a face. “But it’s not really my place to s-”

“Arlert! Get that useless piece of flybait in her stall!” Ah, there he was. Jean tried to bite back his smile as he saw Levi riding into the yard, his face ever the picture of complete disinterest as he stared down at them all. “I warned you all that I was going to work you harder. You should have listened.”

“I think I managed to pull a muscle in my ass,” one of the other students complained.

“Shut it.”

Jean then noticed who Levi was riding. His attempt at aloofness broke completely as he rushed over to them. “Buchwald!” he said, grinning like a child at Christmas. He’d grown since he’d last seen him, and grown well. He was still slender, but he was getting quite tall by now, and his dark brown coat rippled in the dying sun. The horse lifted his head up, and his ears pricked. He let out a small snuffling noise and pulled against Levi’s ice grip. Levi must have decided it wasn’t worth fighting, and let the reins loop at the colt’s neck as Buchwald walked the rest of the way to Jean, butting him in the chest once he reached him. “Oof, thanks mate,” Jean complained, rubbing his knuckles against the whorl of hair on Buchwald’s forehead. The colt let an affectionate whicker loose, and nuzzled closer. Jean swore he heard the horse let out a sigh of relief. “How’s my favourite boy, huh?” he asked, his smile ridiculous as he continued to fuss over him.

“Being a nuisance is what your favourite boy’s doing.” Jean finally dared to look up at Levi. He still had the disinterred expression on his face, though the raised eyebrow betrayed his actual feelings. “He threw Braun earlier. Believe me, that’s difficult. Your dad’s not holding out much hope for him, you know.”

Jean sighed, his hands still gliding over Buchwald’s jaw. “I know that,” he said.

“I’m the only one that’s keeping him here. I convinced your old man not to sell him to the glue factory-” Jean felt sick at the very thought, “- but you have to play it Daddy’s Little Boy for a while to make sure he won’t change his mind.” Levi sniffed. “This is where you’re supposed to say ‘thank you’.”

Jean mumbled the words a little, but he said them. They felt like papercuts coming out of his lips. He knew he owed Levi more than anyone else at the Academy, but being thankful for something was still hard. Everything was a means to the end, and it usually meant keeping his father happy. Levi knew how to play the game- Jean guessed he had experience in the field- so he listened and followed his lead. Whatever Levi said, went. There was no changing that. He owed him too much to not trust him. “Your new ride’s been stabled out back, I’m sure she’s itching to meet you,” Levi said. “Pretty sure you rode her before, back when she was at the stud farm, but she seems pretty sweet mannered and she’ll go like a push-button pony. You won’t have to work her much.”

“Great,” Jean said, and saw Levi’s mouth quirk at the sarcasm.

The smaller man dismounted like a jockey, bracing himself on the hard ground before running up the stirrups of Buchwald’s very expensive saddle. Jean was surprised the colt was even allowed to wear it now he’d been demoted to riding school status. “You’re not a bad kid, you know,” Levi said after a moment. “Some people don’t get your opportunities, I get that. But you don’t have to _like_ your privilege, Kirschtein. You don’t. I like that in you. You actually give a shit about what you do.”

Jean shrugged. “Guess I’m more of my Mum than Dad likes to think.”

“Getting kicked out of that shit-arse little school is definitely an Ella Kirschtein move.”

Jean stared at Levi. “How do you know about that?” he asked, his voice tight. He wasn’t sure whether it was to do with the fact that Levi knew about the school, or that he’d used his mother’s name so casually.

Levi just blinked at him lazily and ducked under Buchwald’s head to reach the other stirrup. “I have my sources. Now, get this sorry excuse for horseflesh into a stall, and give him a groom. He’s sweating like a pig in hunting season.”

It felt wrong to say ‘thanks’. But Jean muttered it anyway as he turned and led Buchwald down the aisles into the stable he remembered as his. But it wasn’t empty any longer. Jean stared at the horse that had taken Buchwald’s place, the elegant half-Arabian head bobbing out at the world with ears pricked and eyes bright. He didn’t have to check to see that it was his new ride.

She was an average size, slightly smaller than Buchwald’s giraffe-like proportions, and a dark liver chestnut that made her shine like a hazelnut in the weak sunlight. Her head-bobbing got even more excitable as he led Buchwald closer, and she let out a small whinny. She arched her head close, trying to greet Buchwald, but the colt just stared at her with the same apologetic look he gave everybody. It was as though he was aware of how clumsy he was, and felt the need to look wretched the entire time just in case he did something wrong. But, Jean considered as he looked at her, the mare didn’t seem so bad. She had a bright, intelligent face, and she was definitely a looker. The little brass plate on the door now read ‘SINA’ in delicately seriffed lettering ,and Jean found the name suiting, in some strange way. “Hey Sina,” he greeted, reaching out his hand for her to investigate. The mare’s ears pricked forwards, her face nothing but friendly as she nuzzled her velvety muzzle into his palm. A rough tongue darted out and sampled his hand in case he was hiding any treats from her, and Jean smiled.

He recognised her from when he’d visited the stud farm with his father a few years ago. She’d been a two year old then, frolicking in an open paddock with her stablemates, and he did remember casting an appraising eye over the filly then. Maybe his father remembered too, and that was why he’d bought her for him. Jean doubted it- she was probably the cream of the crop, and that was why she’d been sent over to the Academy for his own. Still, she seemed well behaved and gentle, and that was good enough for him. Training wouldn’t start for another week, but he’d make sure to take her out tomorrow morning to get a proper feel for her.

The nudge between his shoulder blades reminded him that Buchwald was still there, and his heart sank. “I know, boy, I know,” he muttered, giving Sina a parting pat as he led the gelding to the next stall along. “She took your space, didn’t she?”

Buchwald let out a derisive snort and eyed Sina a little warily, despite the fact that the mare was staring innocently back at him. If Jean didn’t know any better, he would have thought Buchwald was _sulking_. He let the stable door swing back against his hinge behind them both, and ignored the way that Buchwald jumped out of his skin at the sound. “Hey, ssh,” Jean scolded, running a hand down the rigid neck. “You’re a little jumpy today, aren’t you?” He rubbed large circles into the area where Buchwald’s neck joined his shoulder, murmuring softly as he did so, and bit by bit the gelding relaxed, the muscles loosening under Jean’s touch. “There we are, what’s so scary big boy, hmm?” he said, wishing- not for the first time- that Buchwald could tell him.

Once he was sure the young horse was calm, he slipped out of the stall to retrieve the grooming supplies, and darted back before any of the stable hands caught him. He started off with the plastic body brush, running it over Buchwald’s body from head to foot so all traces of dirt were gone, then set to work on the colt’s tail and fetlocks, crouching down in the straw dangerously close to the hind legs as he brought the more gentler brush through the coarse hair of the tail and the smaller brush to tickle the wisps of feather on his legs. He had to be quick; if the stable hands spotted him, he wouldn’t hear the end of it, from them or his father. He straightened up with a groan after half an hour of running various brushes over Buchwald’s coat, and smiled at his handiwork. “You may be a yard horse now,” he said, “but you’re still the most handsome boy out there.” Buchwald whickered softly and butted his head into Jean’s chest, demanding affection, and with a dry chuckle Jean did exactly that. He was still fussing over the horse when his phone went off in his pocket. “I wonder who that could be,” he said sarcastically, unlocking his phone to find- “Yup, called it,” he said.

**_From: Marlow  
_ ** _-so i heard someone got kicked out of school naughty naughty_

_-do I have to punish u_

Jean snorted, and fired one back.

****_To: Marlow_  
 _-I didn’t get kicked out, I walked out of my own free will  
\- but what do you have in mind?_

He bit his lip as he waited for Marlow to reply. He knew it wouldn’t take long for Marlow to get wind of the fact that he’d turned up back at his house. Marlow never visited him when he was at school- he probably didn’t think he’d fit in with the other students there, and he was partly right- so he always looked forward to Jean coming home. Jean would be lying if he said he hadn’t missed him. He gave Buchwald a final pat, a promise that he would get up super early and exercise him before Sina as he slipped from the stable with a lightness to his chest as he got another text. At least someone wanted him back.

**_From: Marlow  
_ ** _\- wrecking u seems like a pretty good plan_

Jean rolled his eyes. _So romantic._

And just like that, everything was back to normal. Back to the grind. He walked back to the house with his phone in his hand, holding on to the knowledge that he would see someone tonight that wanted him. Call him needy, but sometimes coming home to rolled eyes and curt words got to him. Still, summer was around the corner, and after that, he would be carted off to university. He didn’t want to count down the time he had left in his father’s house, but he found himself doing just that as he opened the door to his house and crept in, wanting more than anything not to bump into his father.

Yeah. Everything was normal.

#### 


	2. One Day Here, Next Day Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whew the next chapter of Hackamore is up! The last little bit kept evading me and coming out wrong, but I think it's finally where I want it, and huzzah, here we are!
> 
> ***Just a lil warning, Marlow's in this chapter from the outset so there's a lot of problematic interactions between him and Jean, should we say, so it may be a little skin-crawling, but stick with it. I assure you, if you know No Reins, it gets so much better.***
> 
> I also want to say thank you for the insane amount of love I got for the first chapter of this, I really didn't expect it so thank you so much! It's so nice to know that there's so much support for the dumb horse nerds out there :D   
> If you haven't read No Reins yet, I highly recommend it, mainly because it'll make a lot more sense and you'll be able to know what's coming! Also I seem to be able to channel Marco better than Jean- guess it's cus I'm more like Marco, who knows. 
> 
> But anyway, I hope you enjoy! As always my tumblr asks are open for questions: www.attackonmyponderland.tumblr.com

_They had a lot of time to make up for._

That was the first greeting Jean got when he swung open the door to his house to find Marlow standing there, hands in pockets with the biggest smirk on his face. He’d tried to give himself an undercut, but Jean wasn’t sure he’d succeeded. He was still hot, though, and still made Jean’s stomach do flip-flops every time his gaze swept over him. Marlow would stare at him in this predatory way, like he wanted to devour every inch of him, and it never failed to make Jean squirm.

He didn’t even tell Marlow to be quiet as he stepped through the door and crashed against him, knocking him back against the nearest wall with a satisfied growl. Jean just grabbed any chunk of hair he could and tried to keep up, his pulse roaring in his ears as Marlow thrust his tongue into his mouth with no warning and almost choked him. Marlow kicked the door shut behind him with a foot, and that signal made sure that Jean would be entertained for the entire night. He couldn’t help cracking an eye open and looking down the hallway, half wishing that his father would come out of his study and see him being practically fucked against a wall, but there was no movement. He let out a loud moan just to be sure that he was heard, and felt more than heard Marlow’s deep chuckle. “I thought I made you a promise,” Marlow said, curling his tongue around the shell of Jean’s ear and tugging on it with his teeth. Jean hissed.

“Something about wrecking me, huh?” Jean managed to gasp out as Marlow grabbed at his ass and forced their bodies closer. He could feel Marlow’s excitement against his thigh, and he bit his lip. _God, he wasn’t going to be able to walk in the morning. So much for the early morning ride._

“Better believe it,” Marlow growled, and with that he slung Jean over his back in a fireman’s lift and took off down the hallways, Jean cackling as they went. He was sure he heard the click of a lock as they raced past his father’s study, but he couldn’t be sure.

By the morning, Jean felt like he’d been run over by a truck. Repeatedly. That didn’t stop Marlow from waking him up with a slap to the ass and a rather intrusive finger, but Jean didn’t mind. All hints of sexual frustration had been kept under such a tight leash whilst he was living in the dorms- after all, no one wants to overhear their bunkmate rubbing one out when they’re trying to sleep- so he’d been looking forward to finally being able to let it all out: in more ways than one. Marlow’s swearing reached a new volume to signify that he was close, but as Jean felt his own orgasm began to build, Marlow pulled out and flopped down beside him, boneless and sated. Jean let out a groan and rolled onto his side with a wince. “What the fuck, Marlow? I didn’t even come!”

“Ugh, make yourself come, I’m done.” Marlow washed a hand over his face and didn’t move an inch.

Jean glowered at him. “Wow, rude. You haven’t seen me in a month and a half, I don’t think asking you to finish what you started is much of a demand.”

“Shut up, Jean. I’ve had a hard week.”

“Doing what?”

Marlow’s eyes flashed dangerously from underneath the arm he’d flung over his face. “We are not discussing it.”

Jean huffed and rolled onto his back, staring hard at his problem. He ran a hand down his body, still twitching from the pounding it had taken, and felt the heat rush back where it belonged, waiting to be knocked over the edge. He waited a moment. “You want to watch me jerk off?” he asked, turning to look at his partner.

Marlow just glared at him. “What the fuck? Of course I don’t want to, _Jesus._ Deal with it on your own. And try not to make too much noise, I wanna go back to sleep.”

Suddenly, Jean wasn’t in the mood. Blue balls or not, he felt like turning over and giving himself a few quick jerks to relieve himself was letting his grumpy bastard of a partner win. Instead, he stubbornly stayed on his back, glaring up at the ceiling.

Jean and Marlow’s relationship was a strange one. Jean met him by pure chance during a random night out in the city (it wasn’t something he did often, seeing as he tried to drag most of his friends to gay bars and they were having none of it) and after getting dragged into the alleyway outside the club by the tall, dark and handsome boy and being kissed so hard he couldn’t breathe, they switched numbers and just kept happening to bump into each other. And, about two weeks down the line, Jean lost his virginity and birthed a monster.  Whenever they bumped into each other afterwards, they were sure to start ripping each other’s clothes off. That had been six months ago, and nothing much had changed since. Being in boarding meant that they didn’t see each other as often as Jean would have liked, but it wasn’t something he could control.

It was a given thing, then, that whenever he saw Marlow he was ultimately biting on his pillow within an hour. Jean wasn’t sure what their relationship was; Marlow called him boyfriend before they fucked, and fuck buddy directly afterwards, so it didn’t exactly give him boundaries. It didn’t bother him too much; it was part and partial of growing up, he would tell himself, and that it was just a grown up relationship that he had to suck up and deal with. The sappy stuff was only good for doey eyed fifteen year olds and those shitty books and movies he couldn’t stand. _This was a relationship_ , he reminded himself as Marlow started to snore next to him, _this **is** a relationship and you are not going to mess it up just because you’re a fucking wuss. _

He realised that they hadn’t even spoken to each other, not really, and it was that thought that dragged him out of the bed and crushed his fist against his eyes to drive away the grit that was in them. Marlow didn’t even stir. _Figures. Asshole._ Jean stuck his tongue out at him even though he wasn’t conscious to appreciate it, and crossed the room to look out of the window at the stables. The sun had risen about an hour ago, and it was hitting the yard just right so that the whitewash stalls gleamed in the early morning glow. Jean could practically taste the water on the air from where he stood.

“Mmmph, where did you go?”

Jean relaxed at how soft the words seemed to be. “Just here,” he replied, turning back to watch Marlow blink sleepily at him. For someone who’d been snoring a split second ago, he could wake up remarkably fast. “We… we didn’t really talk last night.”

“Yeah, we kinda just… did.” Marlow smirked through his bedhead.

Jean chuckled. “Right. How have you been?”

Marlow shrugged. “Been busy, like I said.”

“Doing…?”

“Nothing.”

“Fine,” Jean relented, if only to have some peace, and crossed back over to flop onto the bed beside him. “Did you miss me?”

“Of course,” Marlow said. He sounded bored, like he had to say it all the time like it was an obligation, but he didn’t have to say it often. He ran a hand along the side of Jean’s neck, looking at the hickeys that were swelling to life like flowers in bloom under the skin. “I always miss you.”

Jean smiled at that, arching his neck into the touch and wriggling closer. “How much?” he asked.

“Too much to count.” Marlow was grinning now, the edge in his voice a little different as he inspected every little mark he’d given Jean the night before. Jean never told him that he wasn’t a massive fan of being bitten, but Marlow assured him that it was just the way sex was done when it was two guys. There was a lot of biting involved. Jean wasn’t sure he believed him; Marlow had also told him that guys who bottomed didn’t always orgasm, but porn dictated otherwise. Unless that was a big sham like the romance films. It wouldn’t have surprised him if that were true, too.

Marlow reached up and planted a kiss, firm and steady, on one of the marks, and Jean drew breath at the slight ache. “Mmm, love seeing you all marked up for me. Shows how much you love the way I fuck you,” he murmured, kissing him again all the way down his neck. He stopped when Jean moved to duck his lips against Marlow’s. He hesitated, then sighed and kissed him gently, the sort of gentle Jean liked, the sort of gentle that reassured him of everything being okay with them. When they pulled away, Jean still smarted about Marlow not finishing what he started, but it was muffled now.

“Can you stick around?” Jean asked as Marlow drew him in close to his chest.

He shook his head. “Gotta be back in Trost central by nine. Sorry. But you’re back for the summer, right?”

“Right.”

“Well then, we’ll see lots of each other, won’t we?” Marlow was kissing him again before Jean could protest, but before he could lean closer and deepen it, Marlow pulled away and reached for his phone on the bedside table. “Sorry sweets, gotta take this,” he grunted, tapping away on the keys.

Jean ran a hand through his hair, unwilling to just sit and wait for his boyfriend’s attention, and got up out of bed to walk through to the bathroom opposite. He washed off the grime of the day, and the stench of sweat and sex that clothed him like a robe, and padded back to his room clad only in a towel. Marlow was still texting when he dropped the towel and started drying himself. Nothing. No reaction. Jean pursed his lips. He was halfway through slipping into his riding gear when Marlow finally looked up. “What you dressing like that for?” he asked as Jean pulled on his jodhpurs- with some degree of effort.

“I’m going down to the yard,” Jean replied, grabbing a thin polar fleece from a pile and throwing it over his head. “Dad got me a new ride for the Jinae showgrounds open, and I haven’t tried her out yet. She’s gorgeous though, Marlow, you should see her, she’s this delicate little-”

“You’re bunking me off for fucking horses?” Marlow sounded less than pleased. “For fuck’s sake Jean, aren’t I your boyfriend?”

Ah, yes. He also played the ‘boyfriend’ card when he wanted something, or wanted to guilt trip. Seemed like this morning was the latter. Jean put his hands on his hips. “Yes, you’re my boyfriend. But you’re also leaving soon, so you might as well get home sooner.” He turned away to check his appearance in a mirror. “You know the horses are important to me.”

“Oh yeah, I know that alright. Shit, you talk about them like they actually have feelings.”

Jean wheeled around at that. “That’s because they _do_ , Marlow. Don’t try to make me sound stupid!”

Marlow snorted and flopped back onto the bed. “Fine, go do your horse whispering shit. Not like we haven’t seen each other in ages or anything.”

Jean deflated. He strayed a little closer to the bed. “Come on, you know I didn’t mean it like that. I like seeing you, you know I do. But you said you were busy, and…” He paused. “Do you want to come down to the yard, or…?”

“Ugh, _no_. Go on. Go ride that new horse of yours or whatever.” Marlow’s reply was muffled by the pillow in his mouth, but Jean felt every word.

“Fine,” he hissed, picking up a deodorant can from his desk and aiming it for Marlow’s head. It ended up hitting his shoulder, where he barely flinched. “I’m going.”

He got a guttural grunt in reply.

He took the stairs two at a time, trying to ignore the niggling feeling in the pit of his stomach. Marlow was such an ass sometimes, but he guessed… sometimes it couldn’t be helped? If he really was busy, then he might just be tired. Something inside instructed that even if that was the case, it didn’t excuse him, but he shook it aside as he threw the door open and inhaled the crisp morning air with a smile. This was where he felt at home. All of the worries and concerns compressing around him suddenly flew out like caged birds once he was outside, and he liked to keep it that way for as long as possible.

He took the path down to the stables at a slightly bouncy jog, ducking into the tack room as his first port of call. He noted that the tack hanging on Buchwald’s peg was the cracked and faded leather and synthetic combination they used for the school horses, and he swallowed down the bitterness as he grabbed the shiny black saddle and bridle on the newly mounted ‘Sina’ plaques.

Sina didn’t take long to tack up; she stood quietly in the courtyard whilst Jean fiddled with the straps, made sure they fitted her okay without choking her, and didn’t even flinch as the girth was tightened around her middle. She skittered a little when Jean mounted her, but he only had to gather the reins in his hands and cluck his tongue to her and she sprang into a jaunty walk, head bobbing like a well-preened bird as they walked out of the main stable block. Jean kept her walking for a little while to get used to her stride and the way she worked. He soon found out she had a habit of snatching for the reins if she thought he wasn’t paying attention, and his aching body saw that he paid the price every time she tried. He winced, inwardly cursing Marlow, and halted her for the moment, thinking. He could pop her over a few practice jumps in the arena, or maybe a few on the cross country course if he was feeling adventurous so early in the morning. But then, there was that little path he’d found with Buchwald…

With a grin, he reached down to give Sina a gentle pat on the arch of her neck. “What do you think girl, eh? Want to show me what you can do?” Sina bobbed her head, dancing on her toes the moment she felt the ounce of pressure disappear from the bit. He chuckled. “Thought so.” And he let the reins slip through his fingers a little, nudged her with his heels, and held on tight. Sina reacted like a racehorse out of a starting gate, leaping from a standstill into a light-footed canter which quickly turned into a gallop, and Jean let out a whoop of delight as she only got faster. He thought Buchwald could run, but Sina could _fly_. The young mare skidded around the corner without breaking stride, and Jean spotted the gate he would have to open looming in front of them. “Sina, steady,” he ordered, pulling back on the reins. Her stride faltered, but she blew out through her nose crossly and tossed her head. Jean thought about it. He glanced at the fence next to the gate, and tutted. “Well, you’re meant to be a jumper,” he said, giving her an encouraging nudge to point her towards the fence instead of the gate, “let’s see what you can do with that breeding of yours.”

Sina seemed only too happy to oblige. Jean counted the strides leading up to the fence to keep his concentration, and he got to ‘four’ when Sina left the ground. She made sure to curl her hooves up against her belly like a cat as she jumped, and the jaunty movement upon landing signified that she liked to flick her heels after finishing, but that was a behaviour they could train out of her. Jean let out a breathless laugh and drove her towards the country path, thanking his lucky stars that Levi hadn’t seen him pull that off- impressed though he would have been, he would have also kicked his ass for taking the risk. _But in my eyes_ , Jean thought as he charged Sina into the overhanging forest with another yell of triumph, _horse riding is all about the risk._

* * *

Risk, he found out, was also in his father’s blood too. Sneaking Sina’s name into the showgrounds entry ten days before the event itself was due to start was not only taking a massive risk, but Jean was sure it was way past the entry date for riders. Jean secretly wished, as he listened to his father snap at whatever poor soul was on the other end of the phone, that it was too late. He wanted more than anything for Buchwald’s name to be unscratchable, so his father would have no choice but to let him ride the finicky gelding in the showgrounds and actually _enjoy_ himself instead of just being out there to win. But, obviously, Jacques Kirschtein got his way. His influence and money meant that it was all too easy to strike Buchwald’s name off the list and put Sina’s in its place. Jean’s heart sank as he checked the proceedings with his father angrily pointing at the way they had to drop down a few places in the order for his wish to be granted. But it was done, Buchwald was forgotten, and the training began.

Jean would have been lying if he said that the training regime Levi put them on wasn’t strict and strenuous. Every evening he would flop into bed with aches and pains from exerting his muscles, and he was sure Sina fared no better. But it was worth the burn; it felt like his body was crackling like a furnace, waiting for its time to spring into the action he was preparing it for, and he found himself longing for that ache after a while. Marlow didn’t come round for a while, claiming that when Jean was in his ‘horse headspace’ that it was pointless company, but Jean didn’t mind. He minded a little. He minded when, at the end of a particularly long session, he saw girlfriends of his team mates hang on the fence with bored expressions. They would call for their partners to hurry up and get the horses untacked so they could take them home and heal their wounds, and for a while Jean just scoffed at the puppy-like way they trailed after his friends, grinning and asking how training went like they genuinely cared. Jean went back to his big house and studied. He read sometimes, but not often. He listened to music the most, letting himself drown in the sounds and his own hands. After all, there was nothing like a good orgasm to slacken the muscles- and if Marlow wasn’t around, then fuck it. At least he knew what he liked if it was him doing the touching. At least _he_ didn’t give up halfway through and treat it as a lost cause.

Whether he was seeking comfort or not, the training continued, and it was brutal. Levi would bark out orders astride Sawney and watch as the five shortlisted for the showgrounds cantered their horses in single file, one behind the other, and jumping a practice jump in the same formation. He’d then set them off around a course, hissing instructions to those who weren’t sure and berating those who were getting too cocky. Jean sat in a comfortable middle ground, tending to Sina’s needs as best he could as he pitted her against the fences, but even ‘push button horses’ had their problems. Sina didn’t ever refuse a jump, but there were signs of discomfort at times as she landed that made Jean pull her back and check she was doing okay. The majority of the time, though, Sina seemed to have slipped into Trost Riding Academy life like she was born for it; she took every fence with fizzing enthusiasm and the same flick of her heels. After asking Levi about it and being assured that it was completely fine, Jean let the mare keep her quirk, eventually learning to expect the slight jolt before she landed.

He wasn’t immune, however, to his teammate’s feelings on the fact that he’d been given a new, practically perfect horse just before the beginning of competition season; he pretended not to see the dark and envious looks cast his way, or hear the whispered jibes and gossips every time he cantered Sina past the assembled group. He couldn’t blame them, after all- he was sure he would be exactly the same if he was in their position. To them, he was just the owner’s son, the rich kid who could have whatever horse he wanted with a click of his fingers, but they could believe that if they wanted. He didn’t care.

There were, however, two exceptions to the glares.

The first was Reiner Braun. A six foot mass of muscled blonde and testosterone, Reiner looked more suited to a rugby field than a showjumping arena. He had a large, booming voice that shocked even the most stubborn of horses into submission, and wrangled his 17 hand hunter type like a cowboy. Even though he looked like the most unlikely of riders, Reiner was equestrian royalty. His mother had been a formidable competitor in the cross country and eventing circuits back in Germany when she was a teenager, and it carried on through her adult life. Jean had watched her ride for the Olympics when he was a child, and she smashed not only the competition, but a handful of records as well. Reiner’s father specialised in Dressage, and was once partnered with the most valuable Dressage stallion in the German stud business. The two met on a course walkthrough, and the rest was history. Reiner, as a result, was born ready for the saddle. Still, the Braun family remained faithful to their lower class roots, and were as humble as could be about their careers.

Reiner’s modesty made him a good friend to have. Not only did he understand the savagery of equestrianism, he once punched someone so hard the poor guy bled for a week. Definitely a good candidate for a best friend.

“Wagner you piece of horse shite, if you don’t get move your fucking Warmblood…”

“Shut up, Braun! Get your horse’s coffin head out my arse!” was the reply.

Reiner pouted. “Don’t listen to him, Colossus,” he sniffed, burying his face in the blood bay gelding’s mane. “Ignore the mean little boy. You’re my Lossie.”

_Okay,_ Jean conceded. _He was secretly a big teddy bear, but no one needed to know that._

The other was Armin, who was currently trying to jump a very reluctant Autumn over a cross bar. His mouth was set in concentration as he turned the mare in a tight circle to get her to slow her pace and not rush, but the mare still managed to free her head of his grip and launched herself over the fence with little thought of what was going to happen on the other side. “Arlert, I know you’re not on the team but for god’s sake you still have to _try_ getting her over the jump!” Levi snapped.

Jean winced at Armin’s beaten down smile as he trotted past, Autumn blowing through her nose with distaste. Armin was different to the others. He was like Jean; he wasn’t riding to win rosettes or cups or renown. Armin rode because he _wanted_ to. He gave Jean a comforting pat on the shoulder as he circled to get to the back of the ride, giving a careless shrug at Jean’s frown. He liked letting the horses do their own thing, and if they didn’t want to jump then Armin wasn’t going to force them. Autumn just didn’t seem the type for jumping; she was foaming at the mouth and sidestepping into the other horses as she waited, ears constantly back in an expression of complete unhappiness. Jean watched her as Bertholdt took the jump with his old reliable ex-racehorse, a relic ironically called Cyclone, and noticed the way she shuffled uncomfortably. “I think it’s her bit,” he commented.

Armin blinked. “You think so?”

“Dunno. She’s champing at it a lot.” Jean glanced up at Bertholdt’s jump, smiled at the way Cyclone fumbled over it but righted himself in time, and nudged Sina closer to the roan. “Might be too tight against her mouth.”

“She is? I didn’t notice! Does it look bad?” Armin let the reins slip through his fingers a little, and leaned down to check.

At that moment, there was a squeal of warning and a dapple grey nearly barrelled into Sina’s hindquarters from the left. With a surprised neigh, the mare swung her haunches around and brought her head up in alarm, ears flying back. “Jesus _Christ_ , Annie!” Jean swore, shortening Sina’s rein in case she decided to bolt. Too late, Autumn had already chosen to leap sideways into the fence, crushing Armin’s leg against it without mercy. Armin went pale. Jean spun around in his saddle to glare at the blonde responsible. “What the fuck was that?!”

She pulled up her snorting mount with a bored expression, casting a critical look at Armin, who was trying not to cry at the pain shooting through his calf. “You shouldn’t have been loitering here,” she replied in a curt, clipped manner. “The line’s moved up.”

“That doesn’t fucking matter, you should have looked where you were going! You crushed Armin’s leg!” Jean fumed.

She shrugged. “Not my problem. He’ll live. It’s not broken.” She hauled her still snorting gelding out from the tangle of horses and shot Jean a look that suggested he back down. “Maybe you should pay more attention to working your shiny new horse instead of looking out for time wasters. Not all of us can just fall back on Daddy’s money to get us to where we want to be.” She gave the gelding a nudge, and he sprang away like his hooves were shod with lightning.

Jean watched her go, fuming, but Armin whimpered a small, “L-leave it Jean, s’not worth it,” out through gritted teeth. He frowned. It was worth it. Armin just didn’t want to make a scene. Also, Jean was pretty sure if he picked a fight with Annie, it wasn’t a fight he’d win. Jean reached over and grabbed Autumn’s reins in case she realised that she was loose, and sought out Levi in the arena. Their eyes met in a flash, and the slight nod was all Jean needed to see. “C’mon Armin, let’s go,” he said, dismounting from Sina and bringing both horses’ reins over their heads to lead them out of the arena. He felt Levi’s eyes on him the entire time, burning into the back of his neck with something no one else would pinpoint as concern, and Jean twitched at the scrutiny.

Once they clattered back into the yard, a stable girl spotted them and raised a brow as she swept the floor. “They pay you to take walk outs now, _boss_?” she asked with a mirthful smirk.

Jean stuck a middle finger up at her with a growl and led Sina to her stall, giving her a gentle tap on the rump to encourage her to walk in on her own. And that was where he left her, turning to Armin and holding Autumn’s head while he dismounted with a wince as pain shot up his leg. “Take it easy, alright?” Jean said, giving Autumn an absent pat as he watched Armin hobble across to an upturned bucket, “I’ll put her away. Just keep breathing.” Armin gave him a wobbly smile, and Jean was reminded that not everyone in the equine world was in it for the fun or the fair game.

* * *

The day of the show arrived quicker than Jean had even thought possible, but the training regimes were paying off and the chosen team for Trost Academy were a good bunch of riders with a lot of potential. Jean hadn’t gone to the Jinae showgrounds last year; he’d been cooped up inside studying, but Armin originally came from the little town and told him that he wasn’t missing much. Jean wondered if that was said just to make him feel better.

Marlow stayed over the night before, so in the morning Jean was woken up by a lazy, drawn out kiss and a mumble of, “turn your fucking alarm off, it’s a crime to be up this early.”

Jean smirked and rolled onto his side, watching the way Marlow buried his head under the covers. “If you didn’t want to be here, you didn’t have to be.”

“Yeah right, and listen to you grating on me about how I never go to any of your things? No thank you. I’ll take the early morning. Just gimme a minute to gain consciousness, _fuck_.”

Jean rolled his eyes and sat up, running a hand through his hair. “You gonna watch from the stands?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t be seen dead anywhere else,” was the reply.

“Awesome. You don’t have to come with us in the trailers though, if you’d rather-”

“Jean.” Marlow finally lifted his head, and gazed at him with a lidded frown. “Are you ashamed of me?”

It was Jean’s turn to frown. “What, no.”

“Well then, why do you keep offering me ways out like you are right now?” Marlow’s lip curled. “I am going to this showgrounds of yours, I’m gonna watch your round and I’m gonna be proud of you. That’s what’s gonna happen today, alright? So stop worrying about shit.”

Jean rubbed the back of his neck, watching Marlow as he twisted onto his back. He couldn’t help being nervous- when he was nervous he talked a lot, and became a lot more conscious of the people around him. He knew that Marlow was going out of his way for him, so he felt guilty. Now he was nervous, that guilt reached astronomical proportions. Still, he knew he didn’t have to worry. He shrugged. “I just know horses aren’t really your thing.”

“Nah, but s’fine.” He leaned across and caught Jean’s lips in his own, giving his lip a sharp bite as he pulled away. “I can handle watching the yawn-fest for a little while. Besides, imagine all the congratulatory sex you’ll get when you win.”

Jean smacked his arm. “I didn’t say I was going to win.”

“Yeah, but we know that’s what you’re thinking. What your dad’s thinking, at any rate.”

Jean groaned. “I don’t want to win, Marlow.”

“Wouldn’t be bad if you did.”

“I know, but Dad’s the one who wants to win all the time.” Jean winced at the thought of his father and Marlow meeting. “Maybe it’s better if you _weren’t_ in the trailers, you know what Dad’s like with you…”

“Way ahead of you, sweets,” Marlow said, flopping back onto the bed. “I got my car, remember? I’ll just go in that.”

“Sounds good to m- hey wait, if you had your car in the first place, why did you get so shitty when I suggested you didn’t come in the trailers?”

Marlow shrugged. “Still think you’re ashamed of me.”

“I’m _not_.”

Marlow snorted and rolled onto his side. “You better get your nag spruced up. Oil her fenders, or whatever.”

Jean smirked and rolled his eyes, leaning across to dart a small kiss on Marlow’s temple before standing up and crossing to his wardrobe. His competition clothes were all laid out there ready, a dark navy showjumping jacket and ridiculously clean white jodhpurs. Jean grinned toothily at it, and darted to the shower to make doubly sure he wouldn’t get a speck of dirt on anything the moment he put it on.

It turned out that he’d overslept, and the stable hands were already working tirelessly on the horses due to attend the showgrounds without him. _Damn._ Doing some of the chores was part and partial of the show atmosphere, and it helped Jean relax, but he couldn’t complain. The hands were doing a brilliant job, after all. Sina was already gleaming and groomed to perfection, shining like a newly minted copper coin in the sun, and her mane was pulled and tightened up into neat plaits. Her nostrils quivered at his approach, and Jean gave her a gentle pat as he neared her. “Hey, sweetie, how’s it going?” he greeted, running a hand down her leg to check her soundness beneath her travel boots. All fine. All the right temperature. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“Come on Jean, load your horse or else we’ll miss the first round!” he heard Reiner boom out over the noise of nervous horses and clattered tail ramps.

Jean sighed and drew his hand away from his mare’s legs and stood up. _His_ mare. That was going to take some getting used to. “I’m coming, I’m coming!” he called, unlatching Sina from her rung and leading her over to the trailer. The Trost Academy’s trailer was more like a moving palace for horses, with soft padding on the sides and a fresh bed of shavings for them all. The van was large enough to fit all five of the competing horses inside, and as Jean led Sina up the ramp and got her secure, the other heads turned to look at him curiously. Colossus, Reiner’s horse. Killarney, Annie’s. Boulevard, or Boolie, Thomas’s. And the tired looking Cyclone, who was blinking lazily in Jean’s direction. It was an okay line up, all things considered.

Once Jean had Sina secure and ready, he slipped out the side door to the trailer and shut the tailgate up with some help from the stable hands and jogged to his own car, where Reiner and Bertholdt were squashed in the back. It was going to be a long-winded journey, with his father shouting commands at them all from his place in the horse trailer, but the excited fizz of a competition was hanging in the air above them all, and as he hit the new model into gear, Jean couldn’t stop the grin spreading across his face.

* * *

“It’s busier than last year,” Reiner said.

“D-definitely,” Bertholdt mumbled.

They were all stood against the hood of Jean’s car, looking around with idle fascination at the activity going on around them. They had all arrived at the same time, Jean with his car and Jacques with the trailer, and the three of them had been left to look after the horses whilst Jacques signed them all in. Thomas and Annie had wandered off, no doubt to scout out the competition, but Jean let them go. Thomas was about as much use as a chocolate teapot when it came to dealing with more than one horse, and he was still angry at Annie for hurting Armin in the arena.

The Trost Academy group definitely stood out from the crowd with their pale blue riding jackets, the familiar insignia of the Academy blazoned on their breast pockets, and people seemed to be giving them a wide berth. Maybe that was a good thing; if Annie got approached by someone asking to borrow some saddle soap Jean wasn’t sure they’d survive.

He let out a soft ‘whoosh’ of air, and let himself look around. He wasn’t sure how big the showgrounds had been the year before, but it was certainly bustling far more than it had when he was a kid riding in the junior classes. The wave of nostalgia hit him as he saw the children bobbing along with their fat ponies in tow, more interested in snatching handfuls of grass than the competitions they were sure to be entering in. That was the nice thing about Jinae’s competitions; they were nothing short of harmless. Jinae ran the horse shows because it loved horses. There was no reason for monetary gain, or prestige; it was simply ran to put their horses through their paces, and they definitely were not looking at breeding or conformation, if some of the sad excuses for mounts were anything to go by. In fact, some of the horses that trotted past would have looked more at home on the end of a plough. But their owners were laughing and joking amongst themselves, farmers stood with hunters, children who looked dirt poor racing their broken down little ponies against prim and proper grand prix winners. Jean didn’t know much about the little village, but if its equine love was anything to go by…

“Country bumpkins, the lot of ‘em. Kinda cute, really. The way the other half lives.” Jean jolted at the voice.

Marlow was leaning against the passenger door of Jean’s car, smirking at his wide-eyed wonder. “You look like a kid in a toy shop,” he remarked coolly.

Jean chuckled consciously. “I feel like it.”

Reiner fixed Marlow with a look. “What are you doing here?” he asked. Nice. Blunt and to the point. That was Reiner.

“Jean invited me. That a problem?” Marlow raised a brow, daring him. Even though they were the same height, Reiner could probably knock Marlow into the beginning of next week just by flexing.

Reiner just huffed. “Whatever, c’mon Bert, let’s get the horses out.”

“A-actually, I’ll come with you,” Jean said, walking back around to fish his riding hat out of the passenger side. “I want to warm Sina up as soon as I can, the practice arena’s gonna be rammed.” He felt the glare Marlow gave him burning into his back, but he shrugged helplessly. “You can come with us if you want, Marlow, but you’ll have to help.”

“The fuck am I helping, I didn’t come here to be a fuckin’ dogsbody.”

Jean bit his lip at the way Reiner spun back around and sneered at him. “What did you think this was? Everyone has to chip in and help. We can’t all just turn up to follow our boyfriend around in case he does something you don’t approve of.”

Jean’s stomach dropped. “R-Reiner, just leave it, yeah?” he said, casting an anxious look between them both. He knew his boyfriend didn’t exactly get along famously with Reiner; the two never really did hit it off that well, and ever since Reiner acted like there was dirt on his shoe whenever Marlow was around. In contrast, Marlow liked to start fights around Reiner- maybe there was some sort of alpha male dominance battle going on, but it happened without fail every time. Right now, Marlow looked like he wanted to punch something. Jean crossed his arms and let out a tut. “R-Reiner, if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.”

Reiner’s face fell. “Jean-”

“I mean it.” Jean ignored the wink Marlow cast Reiner’s way. He sighed. “L-look Marlow, I’m sorry, but I’m needed here. I have to make sure all the horses are okay, and then I need to warm Sina up before the start of the competitions. I need to keep her aler-”

“Whatever.” Marlow scuffed his shoes in the dirt. “Nice to know where you’re not wanted.” He gave Jean another glare and walked away, kicking a loose stone in the direction of one of the tethered ponies. Jean winced. _Oh God, was **he** gonna have to make up for that one._

Ignoring Reiner’s concerned frown, Jean strode past him and undid the bolt of the trailer, waiting for him to help with the other side. Reiner rolled his eyes, but did as asked. Jean knew he wanted to say something, but he was grateful that he didn’t. He wasn’t sure how the conversation would have gone, but he was pretty sure it wouldn’t have been good. Bertholdt wrung his hands nervously as the trailer banged down on the ground and darted into its depth immediately, shushing the excitable horses inside. Jean shared a smile with Reiner at Bertholdt’s anxious need to check on his horse, and the two ducked into the gloom of the trailer themselves. Annie and Thomas found their way back to them a few minutes later, and one by one the horses filed out of the trailer, pristine and well-bred. They were getting looks from the riders going past, and Jean felt a surge of pride. They may have their faults, but Trost Academy had the best crop of horses this side of the country, and everyone knew it.

Once he had Sina tacked up and ready, Jean turned to the others. “I’m gonna give her a walk around, help her stretch her legs,” he said. “I can meet you guys in the practice arena?”

“Sure,” Reiner agreed as he swung onto Colossus’s broad back, “but you better not take long. Thomas said that Levi just turned up, so he’s gonna be gunning us down quicker than you can say ‘shit’.”

Jean chuckled. “Yeesh, I’ll bear that in mind.” He gave the mare an encouraging click, and she perked up immediately. There was really no need for a stretch; Sina was more than used to travelling in a trailer, and it hadn’t been that long of a journey, but Jean liked to be sure. He also used it as an excuse to walk around and check the competition. Any competition was good competition, and he liked to see what he was up against; whether it was a first time entrant or a seasoned athlete, he treated each one with caution. Anyone could surprise you, after all.

He checked Sina’s stride as they walked, made sure she wasn’t favouring a particular leg or jerking her head up a little too sharply for it to be normal, but there was nothing. Sina was the picture of health. He gave her a pat as they walked, smiling at the way she tossed her head and pranced eagerly at the sight of all these new and interesting horses to greet. She tried to nip a large spotted gelding walking in the opposite direction, but almost got her nose bitten off in the process. Jean laughed. “Honestly, Sina, not everyone wants to be your friend,” he said. “In fact, most of these guys don’t want to be your friend. Unless you’re in heat. Then they’re _all_ over that.” Sina bobbed her head like she was agreeing with him.

They had skirted the majority of the field and Jean was about to turn back to meet the others when he heard it. It was a loud, intrusive noise that pierced through the normal noises of chatter and whinnying, and even Sina lifted her head to see what was going on.

_BANG BANG BANG._

“What the hell was that?” Jean muttered.

_BANG BANG BANG._

It sounded like someone wasn’t happy about being taken out of a horsebox. Jean frowned and led Sina towards the source of the noise, dodging and weaving through the crowd, and when he caught sight of what it was, he stopped dead.

He hadn’t ever seen anything like it before.

The floor of a small and rather beaten down horsebox was almost falling through thanks to the abuse of the most beautiful creature Jean had ever seen. It was a tall horse, at least seventeen hands if not taller, and probably a gelding if his muscles were anything to go by. This was one of the horses that you didn’t just have to worry about in the arena; you had to worry period. He meant business, regardless of who you were. Jean wasn’t sure what breed he was exactly, but the height alone made him think that he had some kind of draft blood in him somewhere along the line; the power in his chest and chunky muscle was enough to convince him of that. But then there was the intelligent head with flaring nostrils and a thin, sleek coat that suggested his ancestors had been galloping wild in deserts somewhere far away. This horse was a mix of both worlds, and it looked good on him.

He was jet black in colour, the only ounce of colour being the thin white stripe that twisted its way down his face, and jolted around as he threw his head up and snorted. What was bringing everyone’s attention to him was the fact that he was pawing the ground of his box with fervour, ears pinned back against his head and eyes rolling. His companion, a scruffy looking piebald that didn’t want to stop bobbing his head, couldn’t have been less interested, but it was clear to see that the giant horse was making his fellow equines extremely nervous. Jean tightened his hold on Sina’s reins as the mare sidestepped with a nervous whinny.

_BANG BANG BANG._

“H-hey, take it easy.”

Jean’s brows drew together as he heard a meek voice instruct the horse. He stepped a little closer, trying to catch sight of the voice’s owner, and managed to spot a figure duck under the divide separating the two horses. Jean squinted. The guy didn’t look like he had any livery colours on. He inched closer.

“Hey, c-c’mon, easy.”

Now Jean could see him. The grip on Sina’s reins tightened.

_Oh my god._

_He was **gorgeous**. _

He was tall to match his horse, with black hair that made it look like he’d just been pulled out of bed. He had a scattering of freckles across his cheeks, more than he would if he wasn’t out working with horses all the time Jean guessed, and large eyes that kept widening and blinking rapidly as he tried to calm the stressed animal. Jean didn’t ignore the shake in his hands as he laid a hand on the horse’s shoulder, or the way the muscle rippled and twitched under the attention, but he didn’t blame the guy. The horse could probably rip through steel with that bridled power. “Y-you’re alright, you big baby,” the boy was saying, though his wobbly voice probably wasn’t helping with the horse’s confidence.

Despite that, Jean watched, fascinated, as the horse turned his elegant head to regard his handler. One ear flicked forward. He was listening.

_BANG BANG BANG._

Oh, he was being a little shit. Jean knew the kind. Some horses were just badly behaved because they felt like it. They were the clever ones, and you had to watch them like hawks. One of Jean’s old ponies got into the habit of unlocking his stable door and escaping into the bordering paddocks, and there was no training them out of it. Some horses were just mischievous characters.

The boy smirked, and Jean felt all heat shoot up to his face. _Oh that was an amazing expression, do it again_. “Don’t you strop on me,” he heard the boy mutter, running his hand down the shoulder again with a little more control. “You’re going to behave today, you hear me? Behave for Eren. Be a good boy, yeah?” he said, keeping the movement normal and as steady as he could. Jean couldn’t believe it when, after a pause, the giant’s hoof lowered itself onto the floor and stayed there, a disgruntled snort coming from its owner.

Jean blinked.

The guy had got the horse to shut up just by talking to him. There was no harsh words either; they had all been soft, tender commands that calmed the blood in the horse’s veins and left him simmering. The horse tried to nuzzle him, but the boy jerked away and ducked back under the divide to see to the piebald, muttering a few things under his breath and shaking his hands around to get rid of the tremors surging through him. Jean stood there trying not to gape. This guy knew what he was doing; not anyone could just stop a horse from messing around by talking them down like that. Jean bit his lip. The guy didn’t seem to have much confidence in himself, either. Maybe he just wasn’t ever told how good he was. Maybe his trainer just took it for granted, and expected it from him. Jean sighed. _He’d been there._

The boy was unclipping the piebald’s lead rope. This was Jean’s chance. He threw his shoulders back, kept his grip on Sina’s reins tight, and started walking over. He tried to remind himself that he was calm, he was cool, he was just going to stretch out the hand of good sportsmanship and praise the guy on the way he handled his horse. That was all.

_Come off it, his being cute has nothing to do with it?_

He shook himself. He wasn’t an idiot. He could talk to a cute boy without slipping up. That was something he could do. He took in a deep breath, gave Sina a pat for reassurance, and called out to him.

“Hey.”

_Shit. Now what?_


	3. Back to the Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heyy, time for another update! This is a bit of a random surprise one, but I managed to finish this chapter off and edit it all in one night so here ya go! :) I really do love delving back into this AU's little world, and I'm so pleased to see that you all seem to be loving it too! Thank you for all the wonderful comments and kudos, I make sure I answer every comment I receive! <3 
> 
> So, in this chapter we finally see the two boys talking and how /that/ conversation works from Jean's end, Reiner being a taunting little shit and Titan throwing his weight around. And...well the new tag's there for a reason I guess. Lars is a cruel elf.
> 
> My tumblr is here if you'd like to ask anything you don't wanna comment with: attackonmyponderland.tumblr.com
> 
> And...enjoy! This is a bit of a beasty cheapter for a NR part too, dangit ;P

Jean had a chronic issue of falling for someone on first sight. It wasn’t a new thing, either. He fell in love with about three people per week. He didn’t mean to; he would be minding his own business, just rolling along with life, and then a boy with beautiful eyes would just wander into his peripheral and that was it. Jean was a goner. He remembered his first crush being a boy in his Pony Club class; they’d only been twelve, and there was no way in hell Jean would have admitted it to anyone except himself, but the first time he met the boy, the first time they galloped their almost-horses in a childish race, he only had to hear the innocent laughter that flew from the boy’s mouth and everything rushed on him in an instant.

The tug in his belly. The spark in his chest that seemed to promise nothing but good things. The tingles that raged through his skin like an affliction.

Yes, Jean fell for people hard, and often with no reason, and every time it happened those _feelings_ came back like a bad virus, seeking him out wherever he was.

And he was gonna be damned if he let them find him now, as he stood before the cute… stable boy? Was that what he was?- having just shouted out the lamest ‘hey’ known to man.

But then again, feelings liked to fuck you over at the most inconvenient of times.

The boy spun around like he’d had a shot of electricity through him, eyes wide and worried, and Jean cringed at his bluntness. _Way to go asshole, you scared the hell out of him. Excellent first impression._ He felt the beginnings of tingles in his stomach, and promptly pressed them down with a rock of his own fabrication. _Not again._

Now he’d stepped closer, though, he could see the scraps of muscle in this boy’s arms from handling tonne-heavy animals on a daily basis, and swallowed dryly. He hoped the other boy didn’t notice. He was pretty gangly aside from that, all things considered, a mess of limbs and fumbling and awkwardness that reminded Jean of Bertholdt to an extent, but there was something brewing under his surface that he couldn’t pinpoint. The boy was chunkier than Bertholdt, at least, but that wasn’t exactly hard- Bert had the physique of a baby giraffe, and Jean was pretty sure he was the only one of his kind. Then he realised he’d been staring just a little too long for a complete stranger. _Crap._

“I… I’m sorry, but are you talking to me?” the boy asked, his surprise causing his tone to slip into the classic Jinaean dialect.

Jean blinked. “You see anyone else around here worth talking to?” he replied in a heartbeat. He could have smacked himself. That wasn’t him talking, that was his father. It was just a knee jerk reaction nowadays; living with Jacques did that to him. He had to get better at avoiding that.

Thankfully, the boy didn’t seem that perturbed. “Er… I dunno,” he said with a frown.

This was quickly turning into a train crash of a conversation. _Abort, abort, while you still have the chance._ Jean scuffed his boots in the soil, trying not to say anything else stupid, before settling for a casual shrug. After all, this guy had just been approached by a complete stranger who didn’t have a clue what he was fucking doing. However, Jean was very, very good at pretending. He toyed with the reins in his hands, thinking for something that might make the boy more comfortable, and settled on the giant horse stood beside him. He gestured at the animal with his reins. “That your horse?” he asked.

The boy twitched like Jean had insulted him. He even swore he saw a dash of colour leave the freckled cheeks. “Er… uh… sorta,” was the elegant response he got, the boy casting a concerned glance at the horse like it was about to bite him.

Jean bit his lip through a smile. He was cute when he was nervous. Screw it, he was cute whatever he did. But Jean couldn’t exactly _tell_ him that, could he? _Yeah, tell him that and he’ll be running for the fucking hills,_ he thought with a smirk. “How can he ‘sorta’ be yours?” he asked, humouring him.

“W-well he is mine, but I’m not riding him today.”

_Huh. Not a stable boy then._ “Hmm. I figured as much,” he said. You only had to look at the pair for a second to see how alike they were. There was a saying that went around that pets always looked like their owners, and there was something that seemed to bind the two together; the horse snorting angrily and pinning his ears back at the world outside and a shaky teenager didn’t appear the likeliest pair, but they both had some degree of nerves about them. Jean gave the boy a glance. Of course he wouldn’t be riding today. “You’re not exactly decked out for it, are you?” _Shame._

The boy looked down at himself, and then back at Jean like was comparing the both of them. Then he chuckled. Jean wanted to slap his cheeks to stop them from burning. It was a deep, earthy sound, comforting in its own way. He never realised how nice the Jinaean accent was. “Not really, no,” the boy said. Then he paused, reining back the warmth he wanted so badly to radiate, and Jean almost pined for it. “Wh-why do you ask?”

Jean shrugged. He was honest. “No reason. You just looked like you were handling him pretty well in the trailer. He was making a fucking racket and you just looked at him and he shut up. Pretty impressive.”

Jean wasn’t sure if the slight tint of colour on the other boy’s cheeks was to do with him or the fact that it was returning after his question about the horse, but it was good to see all the same. “Er, th-thank you, but I’m really not very good with him,” he tried.

Jean wrinkled his nose. _Fucking bullshit._ The guy had managed to calm the giant down with nothing but softened words and a gentle pat. That was something to be commended. Why didn’t he see that? Was the guy’s family just as good with horses? Maybe they were all super talented. That would give his father something to be afraid of. “Eh, you’re too modest,” he said, flapping the boy’s protests aside. He took another look at the horse. “He’s a nice looking horse,” he said, aware that it was probably wrong to admit that the horse looked carved by the angels. “Good breeding?” _That was a normal question, right? That’s what good, honest sportsmen asked each other when they saw one another. Yeah, definitely._

The boy stared blankly at him, and Jean’s confidence wavered slightly. “I suppose so.”

Jean nodded, wetting his lips. “Looks it. Stallion?”

“Gelding.”

“Shame. He’d make good babies.” Jean couldn’t help thinking of the black horse as a stud, and whether his children would inherit that temper of his and unbridled savage beauty that drew everyone’s eye to him. Even as they stood there, riders and spectators were stopping and staring at him like he was a museum exhibit. Jean could only imagine if there were _more_ of him somewhere, fiery colts and wildcat fillies that answered to no one. He sighed at the thought- then promptly remembered where he was. He shook himself, letting a frown rest on his face as he tried to rid the images of dancing foals from his mind. “Ah, sorry, distracted.” He paused. “Probably think I’m a right nerd just walking up to you, right?” He half smirked, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. He wasn’t usually so talkative. He knew full well _why_ he was being so damn chatty, but that didn’t stop it being absolutely fucking mortifying.

“Oh, n-no it’s fine!” And then the boy _smiled_. And Jean hated how pathetically warm his chest got at the sight. It brightened every inch of the boy’s face, and he found himself smiling back just to try to match it. “Compliments are always appreciated.” _Oh shit he was so adorable and polite and fuck **me**_. “I’m sure Titan appreciates it too.”

“Titan?” Jean cocked an eyebrow.

“Ah- that’s his name. Titan.” The boy gave another, slightly less bright smile, and gestured to the horse.

_Yes, Jean, remember that’s why you’re here?_ “Titan… suits him,” he said with a curt nod. Trying to keep it professional was pretty damn hard with the boy smiling at him like he was the best thing that had happened to him all day. “Who are you?” he ended up blurting.

He wanted to hit himself in the face. Again.

The boy blinked, but before Jean could apologise for how much of an idiot he was, he replied, “Oh, s-sorry! I’m Marco.”

_Marco._ Jean couldn’t help the smile that split his face. Giving a name to a face was lethal. Now he knew the guy had an identity, a life, it made drawing back and walking away so much harder. But he couldn’t admit that, of course. He nodded politely, still smiling that same stupid smile. “Well, good to meet you, Marco.” He meant it. He really, truly meant it. “I’m Je-”

“Kirschtein!”

The smile fell off his face. He knew that voice. And it was coming from the practice area. “Get over here and start warming that mare up or I swear to God you’re gonna be the one with a saddle on your back!”

He huffed. _Way to ruin a pleasant conversation, you little bug-eyed prick._ “Aaaand that’s my cue,” he said, “Fucking Levi.” He gave the boy- Marco- an apologetic look. “Gotta go, sorry- I’m sure we’ll bump into each other again. See ya, Marco.” He gave him a half-hearted wave, cringing at how lame it felt, and led Sina on.

Well, it could have gone a lot worse. Marco did seem a bit freaked out that a random stranger would come up to him and chat, but that was pretty normal for a logical human being. Besides, Jinae was a small town; he probably knew everyone in the town on a first name basis, and Jean definitely screamed ‘out of towner’. At least he wasn’t wearing the light blue jacket of his father’s Academy. He wasn’t sure he would have been given the time of day if he had. The guy might have freaked out even more. Jean frowned as he walked, wondering why Marco was so twitchy. There had to be something that made him that way… but it wasn’t his place to ask.

Sina’s ears pricked up as she noticed her trailer-mates, and whinnied to the passing Colossus as Reiner spun him in a tight circle to shake off his nerves. The gelding looked tiny now Jean had seen Titan, but the deep whicker he gave in return made Sina dance on her toes. That wasn’t who Jean was focused on, though; the real danger was the man striding towards him with a look of thunder. “Oh no,” he sighed.

Levi looked hassled and angry, never a good combination on the trainer, and Jean flung Sina’s reins over her head and tried to mount before Levi could get close enough to give him a smack. He’d probably deserve it. He was halfway into the saddle when he felt Levi grasp his leg. “Where the fuck were you, Jean?” Levi rasped. Jean raised his eyes to the heavens and prayed to any gods who may have been listening to help him out.

“I was just-”

“Chatting up the opposition,” Reiner cut in, smirking as Jean shot daggers at him. “I saw you talking to that kid over there. He’s pretty nice looking, won’t Marlow be jealous?”

Jean bristled at that. “It’s none of Marlow’s business,” he hissed. At the moment, Marlow could go fuck himself as far as Jean was concerned. Marlow knew how much he hated him trying to start fights, especially with friends like Reiner. He didn’t even know where he was; probably up in the stands, sulking. “We were just talking, Jesus Christ.”

Reiner snorted. “Whatever, I know a twitterpated look when I see one.” He reined Colossus back from bolting as Annie charged towards the practice jump with no mercy for whoever was attempting it before her. “And you, my friend, are twitter to the pated.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?!”

“Have you not _seen_ Bambi, you uncultured swine?”

“Shut it, both of you!” Levi ordered, giving Jean’s calf a whack. As Jean hissed out a breath, Levi continued. “You are part of Trost’s elite. You bunch of halfwits are meant to be the cream of the equestrian crop, contenders for the next horse trials, fuck, some of you are maybe international quality.” His eyes narrowed into slits as he addressed them all, eyes picking out Bertholdt hanging back to listen, and Thomas trying to pull Boolie’s head out of a delicate flower arrangement overhanging the arena. He didn’t even look for Annie. “But what you are not are some lower grade bumpkins out to hobble your horses over log piles and call yourself showjumpers. There are riders here who shouldn’t be allowed on the back of a fucking rocking horse, and you exceed them in every measure. You treat your horses like the athletes they are and you will earn yourself some respect. If you act like the riffraff you _become_ the riffraff, do I make myself clear? Your horses can only take you so far.” He turned to Jean then, his glare stony. “So what do we do in order to ensure that we show our potential, Kirschtein?”

Jean sighed. “We practice,” he said in a dull monotone. He’d had that same thing hammered into his mind for the better half of four years.

Levi nodded. “We practice. Now get that mare walking around before I ride her myself.”

Jean rolled his eyes and jerked his leg free of Levi’s grip. “Alright, calm down,” he muttered, nudging Sina with his heels and letting her break into a snappy trot to get free of Levi’s glowers. He appreciated the skill the trainer had with the horses, but it was hard to give him smiles and gratitude when he constantly acted as though you were an enemy he needed to break down into pieces.

He slowed Sina back to a walk even though she was tossing her head, the promise of a run fuelling the fire in her veins. He walked her in a large circle at the far end of the arena, remembering to relax as many muscles as he could get away with to make sure Sina felt the calm steal over her too. One thing horses could do was sense everything; if you were tense in the saddle, they would know there was something to be tense about. Trying to act nonchalant and unphased was something all riders tried to perfect to stop their horses from getting nervous, but sometimes it wasn’t enough.

It definitely wasn’t for Bertholdt. He was shaking from head to foot, and Cyclone was feeling it. The large gelding, usually so calm and collected, was dancing on his toes, head up and nostrils flaring, and Bertholdt couldn’t have looked more terrified. Jean frowned, and beckoned him over. Once the nervous thoroughbred reached him, he moved Sina to the outside and gently persuaded Cyclone to follow them around in the circle, casting worried looks at Bertholdt every now and again. “Hey, you alright up there?” he asked. “Doing good?”

Bertholdt gulped and nodded. “I- I think so. B-But I’m not sure, something feels… strange. Cyclone feels strange. It’s like he knows something bad’s going to happen.”

Jean’s frown increased. “Nothing’s going to happen, Bertl. You’ll be fine.”

Bertholdt didn’t look convinced. Jean looked around for the best source of comfort for the boy, but Reiner was nowhere to be seen. _He was probably letting Colossus stretch his legs around the showgrounds_ , he thought with a huff. “Just keep walking him in this circle, start breathing, and then maybe pop him over a jump or two to practice, okay?” he said, giving him a pat on the shoulder. After getting a shaky smile in return, he turned Sina away and finally let her move into a trot, and then a canter, keeping her stride steady as he turned towards the practice jump. It wasn’t very high, just high enough to make their horses think about it, and Sina needed little encouragement to sail over the obstacle with ease. “Nice jump,” someone commented as Jean pulled up, reaching down to give Sina a well-deserved pat. “You’re a pretty good rider.”

Jean straightened up and blinked at the speaker. “Er- thanks,” he said. She was easily the scariest girl he’d ever come across; her eyes were cold like Annie’s, but her cheeks were flushed with colour and her dark hair cut across her face like a silhouette. The piebald she was riding reminded Jean of the one that Marco had been handling, but on closer inspection he realised this was a mare, and far daintier. Also, it seemed, far better behaved. Sina nosed the newcomer’s shoulder in a gesture of friendship, but the other mare stood in dignified silence, not even registering the nudge.

“You private or part of a yard?” the girl asked, business-like and abrupt.

Jean blinked again. “Er- I’m part of a yard. What about you?”

“Yard.” She looked out across the field at the numerous other competitors and sighed. “We might actually have a chance of winning this year.”

_Don’t count on it,_ the snide voice in the back of Jean’s mind remarked. _You’re up against Trost Academy, your tiny little yard won’t stand a chance._ “W-well I heard that, uh, Trost Academy is pretty good this year,” Jean stammered, trying to keep himself as neutral as possible.

The girl snorted. “Yeah, but they won’t deserve to win. Bunch of stuck up bigots, the lot of them.” Jean felt a stab of outrage at that. They weren’t _all_ stuck up bigots. Sure, plenty of them were, but that didn’t mean they weren’t people too. “They don’t ever speak to anyone else, they ride their show ponies round like they’re made of gold and silver and hiss if they come into contact with anyone below their class,” she added. “I’d steer clear of them if I were you.” Jean’s skin was beginning to itch, the discomfort of her words like ants scattering across every inch of his body.

She was looking away from him now, over to the practice jump where Bertholdt was pitting Cyclone. The gelding was snorting nervously as he neared the obstacle, Bertholdt’s hands white-knuckled on the reins, and he was forced to dig his heels into his horse’s belly on take off. They landed in one piece, but only just. “There’s something wrong with that horse,” the girl mused. “They better check him out before he gets onto the course. Wouldn’t want him breaking down, would we?” She gave Jean a simple glance before turning her mare away from Sina and granting him a simple ‘good luck’ before trotting away to warm up at the opposite end of the field. Jean watched in awe as she turned the mare in a wide arc towards the practice jump, lengthened the stride and flew like it was nothing but a fallen branch. There was a sound of gentle applause from the sidelines, but it was short-lived. Jean noticed the blur of Annie and Killarney bearing down upon the jump like a bat out of hell, and before he could shout anything out, he heard the girl on the piebald yell, “What are you doing?! Have some bloody **_patience_**!”

Jean was pretty sure Annie had no concept of the word. She kept on coming, Killarney foaming at the mouth, and got so close to the other rider that their legs could have brushed- if it wasn’t for the piebald leaping out of range with an enraged squeal. It took Jean a moment to realise that it was actually the girl who’d made the noise, and as she turned in her saddle to shout abuse at their retreating backs, Jean didn’t half blame her. Annie may have been a good rider, but she was a dangerous one, too. Levi often called her a ‘speed demon’, and Jean definitely saw where he got that from. After clearing the jump in the wrong direction, Annie trotted Killarney back to the girl on the piebald, lip curling as they walked past one another. It was a classic psyching-out technique; intimidation, however, didn’t look like it was going to work on the other girl. She merely held her middle finger up and threw in a snarl of her own before urging her piebald into a canter away from them.

“Annie!” Jean called out, walking Sina over to her.

The blonde stiffened in her seat, and turned to him with a sour expression. “What do you want?” she sighed.

“What the fuck was that?!” Jean said, gesturing angrily to where the girl was working her piebald. “Are you trying to get yourself disqualified?”

Annie’s expression was unmovable. “Everyone uses scare tactics, Jean. Just because no one’s thought of trying to freak you out doesn’t mean it won’t happen. Don’t be so naïve.”

“But she wasn’t doing anything!” Jean argued. “She was just practicing, there was no need for you to-”

“She’s good,” Annie answered boredly. “She could actually have a chance of beating us. Do you want to risk that?”

Jean rolled his eyes. Right. Everything was about winning. He should have known. “You know, you and my father should talk some time. You’d be great pals.” Before Annie could retort, he spun Sina around and walked her away, quietly seething. No one deserved to be psyched out like that, even if the girl could probably hold her own. There had been a rumour going around that Annie was in the running for a national team signage. Kind of made sense, if she was that desperate to keep her record propped up. She wasn’t going to risk some random newcomer bowling in and ruining her streak.

Jean took another look over at the girl on the piebald. She couldn’t have looked more relaxed. The piebald had dropped down to a steady trot, playing with her bit idly as the girl sat to the stride. She could definitely ride, there was no denying that; her seat was smooth and posture professional, and Jean realised why Annie had felt so intimidated by her. She then stopped mid-stride and squinted at something on the other side of the arena. Jean followed her eyes- only to find two boys hiding their reddening faces behind their hands as they leant on the fence. He smirked. He knew that mop of blonde hair anywhere. Armin had said he was coming to the competition a little later to watch them… turns out his form of ‘earlier’ was ‘an hour or so later than everyone else’, but Jean wasn’t complaining.

He clicked his tongue and Sina perked up, ears flicking up as she slipped into a gentle canter up to where Armin was stood looking like a complete idiot. He looked so embarrassed… had he got caught checking out the girl on the piebald? Most unlike Armin. Jean couldn’t help chuckling at the thought. Once he reached the fence he reined Sina in and raised a brow. “Hey short-ass, you perving on the ladies?” Armin’s head shot up immediately. If it was even possible, his face got redder. Jean’s smirk widened. “You should be more subtle. You could stop traffic with that face, Arlert.”

“Shut up, Jean!” Armin retorted. He was smiling. He liked being teased, really. Or maybe it was because he was happy to see him. “You’re a bigger perv than I am!”

_Eh. Point taken._ Jean just grinned at him. “You wish, Armin.” He let his gaze slide to Armin’s friend-and his brow rose even higher. He tried not to look too pleased to see who it was. It was Marco. The guy from the trailer. The Gods really were smiling on him. He tried to ignore the way something twisted inside him at how cute the guy’s blush was. It made him look like a little strawberry. A really cute, irresistible strawberry.

_Oh my god Jean you useless piece of shit, focus. You’re here to wind Armin up, remember?_

He wasn’t sure how he managed to keep his cool after seeing Marco red-faced and shy, but by some grace of God he opted for a politely surprised expression. Like he hadn’t just been inwardly praising the guy’s red cheeks. “Oh, hey you.” _Excellent. Cool and detached. You got this, Kirschtein._ “Marco, right? Didn’t have you down as the perv type, but when in Rome do as the Armins do…”

“ _Jean_.”

He grinned. “Alright, alright, sheesh. Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.” Armin just gave a good-natured scoff at that. Both of them knew that Armin was the worst morning person ever. Sina chose the opportunity to shift underneath him, bored by just standing there, but Jean was ready for it. He clicked his tongue again to make her aware that yes, he was still there and yes, he was in charge, and she fell quiet.

“Y-your horse is gorgeous,” Marco spoke up. When Jean glanced up, the look Marco was giving her was so soft it made him smile. “She’s… just great.” Jean also spotted the way he cringed at how simple his words were. He wasn’t aware of just how much simple words meant.

“Thanks. Her name’s Sina,” he replied after giving her a small pat. “This is her first competition, so we’ll see how she goes.”

“Is she your horse?”

Jean remembered their previous conversation, and smiled. “Sorta.” _Nailed it._

Marco grinned at that, and promptly gave Jean heart palpitations. “Fine. How do you know Armin?”

Ah, good. A subject that wasn’t about himself or anything he could slip up with. Perfect. He could do this without messing up. “Well, he’s at Trost Academy with me, but Armin and I go way back,” he said. He tried to ignore the way the grin slipped from Marco’s face at his academy’s mention. _Did they really hold such a snobby reputation?_ “We were hitting the circuits when we were kids, and the little shit was always _so_ close to beating me.” Jean winked at Armin, but got a charming grimace in reply.

Marco frowned. “You did the circuits too?” he asked.

Jean blinked. “‘Too’? You competed?” It might have explained why he thought the guy was a little familiar. There wasn’t much to go by- the circuits had been so long ago, after all, and background riders all but faded from Jean’s memory- but that could have been the little jolt in his stomach when they met.

Marco shut his mouth like he’d said too much, scuffing his feet in the dirt, but Armin took up the mantle for him. “Competed in them? Marco _slaughtered_ them! He was brilliant, he even took the regional championships home once!” he said proudly. Hearing him sound so proud of his friend’s accomplishment was sweet, even if the boy in question seemed far too modest to respond.

“Really?” That made sense. He was probably told about the champion rider by his father at that point, as he tried to wrestle his little blue roan pony through the crowds without having to walk too close to his angrily ranting father about how ‘some riffraff is better than you how dare this happen blablabla’. Jean couldn’t remember it exactly, but it wouldn’t surprise him if what he assumed was true.

“Yeah!” Armin said, his enthusiasm electric. “He used to ride a chestnut with knobbly knees, didn’t you Marco? What was its name? Chad, Challenger…?”

“Champ.” Marco corrected, though he looked sick saying it. “His name was Champ.”

Now _that_ rang a bell. Jean’s eyes widened. Ugly horse, down to earth kid… “Hold on. You mean to tell me that this guy is the freckled wonder with the ugly horse that got a perfect score on that Wings course when I was twelve?” he demanded. Marco flinched away at how loud he’d gotten. That course had been tough; he recalled the way his pony skidded in the dirt to cut the corners sharp enough, but it didn’t get him home with a better time. The boy with the old pony won the round, and Jean got a severe telling off on the long drive home. Still, a yellow ribbon was nice enough. He remembered holding the rosette tightly to his chest as his father ranted and raved, and smiling like it was the best thing in the world. Third place felt good, and after he’d watched from the sidelines as the beaming winner was accosted with kisses by his giddy mother and hugged tightly by his chuckling father, he knew the prize had gone to the right people.

“Yup!” Armin said proudly. “Though he doesn’t like to talk about it. He’s very modest.” _That much was obvious._ Jean glanced at Marco for a moment, and saw the relieved smile he shot Armin’s way. “But… ugly horse? That’s really mean…”

“It’s alright,” Marco said. “Champ’s not going to win a beauty contest any time soon.”

Jean wanted to wave off the modesty again, tell him that it meant a hell of a lot to see someone like him win against some of the toughest competition out there; twelve was a young age, true enough, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t felt any less tense than the round he was about to take. It had been all ice cold apprehension and sweaty palms, but the boy on the back of the old chestnut had looked like he was really, truly enjoying himself, and for Jean that was what horse riding was all about. That was what life was all about, in all honesty- so long as he was enjoying it, there was nothing there to change. His mind started to wander, wondering whether or not the little twelve year old Marco was just as cute as the older model in front of him, and he had to fight to stop biting his lip. He probably did. He was probably adorable as hell. Then he realised that he hadn’t spoken for a while. He cleared his throat. “Well, er, wow. I didn’t think it was you, man. You’ve changed.” He flashed him a winning smile. “But seriously, you were fucking phenomenal. I bet you and that black monster of yours are unstoppable.”

Apparently, he’d said the wrong thing. Marco’s smile broke at the edges, and started falling to pieces bit by bit as he turned to share a look with Armin. “Not really,” he mumbled. Armin grabbed for his arm, something he always did with Jean when he was upset, but before Jean could ask what he’d said, what he’d done-

“Kirschtein! How many times do I have to tell you?”

Jean didn’t even turn around. Levi had the power to project his voice across a busy arena full of rolling hooves. He knew it was him. He just felt the crushing disappointment come over him from Marco’s reaction. _You made things wrong. You don’t know how and you don’t know why, but you made the guy clam up. Well fucking done._

“Having a chit-chat with the groundlings, are we?” was the next sneering comment of Levi’s. It sounded closer.

Jean sighed. He wasn’t in the mood for the trainer’s dirt talk. “For fuck’s sake Levi, I’m just being friendly,” he said, finally turning to look at him.

He was too late. A hand shot up to grab his collar, and Jean jerked away out of instinct. Levi ‘tch’ed. “For the sake of nothing you little shit, get back to warming up. Your mare’s muscles will cramp up if you don’t keep her moving. Your father wouldn’t be happy to find out his prodigy is too busy chatting up bystanders.”

Jean didn’t know whether to lose colour or blush to the high heavens. Levi had managed to wrangle both reactions from him. He glared at Levi for good measure, hating the way his pulse was spiking. “He can think what he likes. I’m already in his bad books for refusing to wear the shitty uniform.” He didn’t have to be told. He knew that just from the way his father was eyeing him with distaste every time he got close enough.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get over there.”

Jean knew Levi was only telling him what was best. He knew that he had to stay on his father’s good side, for Buchwald’s sake. And that meant getting the best he could on the round. He made a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat, a noise that perfectly exuded his thoughts on the matter, but Levi didn’t have enough time for it. The trainer had got Sina’s reins in his hand and was dragging her around before Jean had chance to draw breath. “Aw c’mon, really?” he shouted, flinging his hands free of the reins in a typical tantrum. Then he remembered Marco and Armin. _Whoops. Not a good move, throwing a toddler tantrum when the cute guy’s watching._ He swivelled around in his saddle to see a slightly stunned Marco staring back at him. “I’ll catch up with you later,” he said, like it was a promise. And it was allowed, since Armin was there too. “Once Lieutenant Leprechaun gets his riding crop out of his ass!”

He knew he was dead the moment it came out of his mouth. He knew that was probably the worst thing to say, but that didn’t stop him from being surprised when Levi led Sina over to the collected group of Trost Academy people and punched him squarely in the kneecap. “Shit!” he howled, curling up in the saddle as Sina shifted with worry. “What the fuck was that for?!”

“Your father would have hit your knee harder,” Levi replied bluntly, “and you know it.”

“Yeah, don’t start getting cocky just because you’re flirting with tall, dark and freckles,” Reiner added with a grin atop Colossus.

“I wasn’t flirting, for fuck’s sake!” Jean whined, rubbing his injured knee with a grimace. “Ugh, you could have broken my knee!”

Levi cocked an eyebrow. “Trust me, I know how to break a man’s bones, and that was nowhere near close.” Everyone standing there blanched at his words, but Levi pretended not to notice. Instead, he started to scratch a point on Sina’s wither to get her relaxed, eyes only on the mare as she twitched happily. Jean just didn’t understand Levi sometimes.

“So, what’s his name Jean?” Reiner asked, leaning forward onto Colossus’s broad neck.

Jean flushed. “Shut up.”

“Original name. Cruel parents, though.”

“Ahaha, you’re _so_ funny.”

“I know. I’m brilliant.”

“His name’s Marco,” Thomas blurted out. When both Reiner and Jean stared at him in bewilderment, he continued, “h-his dad used to treat our horses. He’s a vet. His mum runs a stables.” He scratched the back of his neck his helmet didn’t cover. “They’re good people. Horse people.”

“I don’t care if the whole family’s descended from Epona, you are still going to beat them,” Levi muttered, giving Sina a final pat before turning back to them. “They can have as much heart as they like, but if they don’t have the talent they won’t be getting anywhere. And that is something we have, so keep your horses sharp and we won’t have any problems.” He then paused. “Now where the fuck is Hoover?”

The announcements were beginning and riders were beginning to filter out of the practice arena and into their correct groups waiting for their call. It didn’t take long for Jean to spot Bertholdt rounding the corner on Cyclone, the thoroughbred puffing and panting as they moved towards the practice jump. “Bertholdt, we gotta get ready!” he heard Reiner call out. Bertholdt either didn’t hear him or decided it was worth taking one more jump for luck.

It turned out it was one jump too many.

He pushed Cyclone on, knees tight against the girth, but just before they reached the jump Jean noticed the stride become odd. Something in the thoroughbred’s foreleg shifted at a wrong angle. Too wrong for it to be in any way okay. Cyclone’s head jerked up, a squeal of pain erupting from his mouth, and then he was stumbling. “Shit!” Jean said, leaping off of Sina and rushing towards the two of them. He was quickly passed by Reiner, the muscle in the blonde’s arms pumping as he dived for Bertholdt. The boy had been taken by surprise, and had slipped off of Cyclone’s back without doing much damage. He’d hit the sand and rolled away to avoid the large hooves. Reiner saw to him, whilst Jean snatched for Cyclone’s reins before the horse managed to step on anyone. “That’s it, easy,” Jean soothed, laying a hand on the gelding’s nose.

Cyclone’s eyes were rolling with pain as his injured foreleg hung off the ground. It was like he was afraid to put weight on it. Jean got him under control bit by bit, talking calmly to him and running a hand along the nearest shoulder he could reach. He could feel the muscles relaxing, bit by bit, but the foreleg was still refusing to be put down. He whipped his head around for Levi, but the trainer was already there, elbowing him out of the way and crouching down to look at the leg. Cyclone tossed his head and squealed again when Levi so much as touched the injured foreleg, and Jean saw the strange look that passed over Levi’s face. “Get his tack off him,” he ordered, and Bertoldt scrabbled to his feet.

“Wh-what is i-?”

“Just do it, Hoover.” Levi’s tone was grave. That was never a good sign. “it’s already swelling up,” he muttered in an undertone to Jean. “See the way the flesh is getting softer around his coronet?”

Jean nodded. “What does it mean?”

Levi’s mouth twisted. “At best, it means he’ll be on box rest for about six months.”

“And at worst?”

Levi didn’t answer. He straightened up and looked Bertholdt in the eye. “You’re not going to be riding him today, Hoover.”

Bertholdt’s face fell. Jean knew that his father was in the stand watching him, and wouldn’t be too impressed when he found out that his son wouldn’t be riding. “Y-you’re sure he can’t just walk it off?” he said weakly.

“Does it look like he can walk it off?” Levi snapped. “The beast can barely _move_.” When Bertholdt shrank back, Levi sighed. “I’ll talk to your Dad about it, okay? We just need to get bandages and some splits for now to keep the leg steady.” He turned to Jean. “You know where they are. Back of my car. Don’t walk.” He threw the keys at Jean and expected them to be caught. Thankfully, Jean managed it.

He was halfway to the car, sprinting like his life depended on it, when he bumped into his father. Jacques Kirschtein had been in the middle of talking to someone, and glared down at him for the intrusion. “What on earth are you doing over here, the competition’s about to start!” he barked.

Jean didn’t have time. He was gasping for breath, he still had Levi’s car in sight, and the keys he was holding were jingling madly from his fingers. He just pointed to the arena, wheezed a little more, and then charged past him. “Hey, get back here!”

_No. Have to get to the car. Have to get the splints. Have to do it for Cyclone._

He could hear the loudspeaker announcing the start of the first round, and cringed as he finally reached the car, slamming into the side as he fumbled for the right key. He had the door open and was rummaging through the back to get to the first response vet kit Levi always carried with him, when he heard the scuffling of hooves.

He glanced up and saw the giant black horse from earlier mere feet away from him. He stopped in his tracks as the giant reared up, pawing the air with his hooves as a boy on the ground tried to pull him down. The gelding was covered in a layer of sweat, bridled up and he crowded by three people: the boy holding him, a tall blonde guy who looked like an instructor, and an excitedly chattering brunette holding a saddle that had clearly seen better days. The instructor was dancing around the giant hindquarters, giving them a hearty slap if the gelding tried to back into him. Jean winced as the horse- wasn’t it Titan?- bolted forwards and nearly ripped the kid’s arms out of their sockets. “Eren, hold him!” the man was shouting.

“It’s…ngh… easier said than done, Erwin!” came the complaint.

“Do you want me to lull him with some Inuit throat-singing?”

“ ** _No, Hanji_**.”

Hanji huffed and stepped forwards with the saddle, trying to lay its blanket onto Titan’s back, but the gelding was having none of it. The moment he felt the fabric hit his skin, he jolted forward with an energetic whinny, causing another curse to come from the boy holding him. Jean raised a brow. It wasn’t his business, he told himself. If they got themselves injured handling a creature like that, then it was their own silly faults. Not his. He had a job to do. He grabbed the first response kit from the back of the car and locked it back up, turning to head back towards Cyclone. But then he heard a scream.

He turned back, eyes wide, and saw that it was the gelding making the sound. It was a haunting noise, the kind you would hear a wild stallion make in a rugged territory somewhere far away, and it made him hang back. The gelding wheeled around on his haunches, screaming again as Hanji lunged for him out of impatience. If they kept it up much longer, Titan’s high spirits would become something far more dangerous. Jean dropped the kit and jogged towards them.

“Who the fuck are you?” the boy demanded as Jean reached them.

“I’m- er-” Words failed him. “I’m no one. But… you should stop yanking his mouth like that. It’s not getting you anywhere.”

The boy stared incredulously at him. “And why the fuck should I listen to you?”

Jean flushed. “Because I have an expert trainer at my yard, that’s why.” He nudged him carefully out of the way and took the reins. He could feel the unfiltered power flowing through the black horse’s body, and it almost scared him. “Now, steady,” he said firmly. Titan threw his head up, but Jean was ready for him. He let his fingers slip through the reins, and returned them back to a point under the horse’s chin when the head came down again. “I said, _steady_.” He kept his voice cold, merciless like Levi. Levi didn’t use scare tactics on horses, but you needed to sound intimidating so the horses would back down from fighting you. It made you seem like the alpha horse…or something. That was what Levi thought, anyway.

To his amazement, Titan stilled. He even flicked an ear forwards, watching Jean intently as he ran a hand along his jaw and gave the top of his neck a hefty pat. “There we are,” he said, remembering the way Buchwald loved being fussed over, and scratched a spot under the gelding’s jowl. The second ear came forward. Jean kept the eye contact he seemed to have with Titan, refusing to yield to the gelding’s scrutiny as he noticed the blonde instructor he assumed was Erwin move closer out of the corner of his eye.

Titan’s eyes were dark, darker than Sina’s at least, and full of kindling ready to ignite on command, and Jean thought back to just how wild and savage the gelding could be if he was in the wrong hands. Marco was lucky to have him, sure, but the gelding could definitely do some damage if he felt like it. There was something else though, something gentle and delicate in the way the giant nosed him and let out a low whicker deep in his chest. It was a something that reassured Jean that he wasn’t going to get trampled or kicked or bitten. It felt wise and old and calming, and Jean gulped back the lump in his throat. “Damnit, you’re something,” he breathed to the gelding. Titan snorted in response.

“There we are!” cried a triumphant voice, and when Jean looked around he saw that Hanji had placed the saddle onto Titan’s withers, and was slowly sliding it down to nestle comfortably on his back. “Thanks, kid. Titan hates being tacked up.”

“He hasn’t exactly been tacked up for a while,” Eren groused beside him.

“I-it’s fine,” Jean shrugged, letting the reins hang slack between him and the gelding. “He’s… er… a feisty one, isn’t he?”

“Feisty doesn’t cover it,” Erwin said with a pained smile.

Jean wanted to ask whether or not he behaved for Marco, or why Marco wasn’t helping them right now if it was his horse, but realised they didn’t know he’d met him. _That would be a bit weird, asking about the guy you’ve just met,_ he thought. He just gave Titan a final stroke and stepped away, giving the reins away to Eren. Eren gave him a filthy look as the reins exchanged hands, but Jean didn’t have the patience to retort. If this Eren was anything like Annie, getting angry with him was just a ploy to try to pysch him out, and he was not going to fall for it. Oldest trick in the book.

Erwin’s smile was more genuine when his eyes landed on Eren. “Don’t sulk, Eren. Thank him.”

“What?”

“Go on.”

Eren huffed like it was the worst possible request in the world, then shot Jean a dark look. “Thanks. For getting Titan to behave like a fucking horse for once and not a bottle rocket.”

Jean smiled tauntingly at him. “It was my pleasure.”

Eren’s glare darkened.

“Come on. We better get him warmed up now that the other horses are clearing the arena out.” Erwin gave Jean another smile. “Titan can be a handful- he doesn’t behave for everyone. You’re a talented kid, you know. Put those skills to good use.”

Jean felt winded. He suddenly had the urge to become incredibly, painfully modest. That wasn’t something he was used to. “I-I will, sir,” he replied, heat rushing to his face when the instructor turned and smiled at him again. And then they were gone, the little mishmashed group leading the giant between them all, and Jean felt like he could breathe again.

The breathing was short-lived. “Cyclone,” he remembered with dawning horror, and snatched the kit up. He bolted back to the arena, tripping over his feet in his hurry, and found the entire team gathered around the otherwise unphased gelding. Levi looked thunderous as he tore the kit from Jean’s hands. “What took so long?” he hissed, dropping to his knees and rifling through its innards.

Jean wanted to tell him the truth. He had a feeling it wasn’t the best idea, though, especially with how alert Levi was. It felt like he was coiling up like a spring, and was ready to unleash his anger on anyone who pushed him a little too far. But the longer Jean watched him work, the more he realised that Levi’s anger wasn’t the usual kind. This anger was sloppy, shaky, hitching. It suddenly dawned on Jean that Levi was _scared_. Jean gulped.

Bertholdt was curved into Reiner’s body, hand clutching at the fabric of his boyfriend’s riding shirt, and refused to make eye contact with anyone. He had eyes only for his horse, and the trainer that was trying to get the splints in the right place to hold the foreleg steady. Reiner answered Jean’s silent question with a slight shake of his head. Bertholdt wasn’t doing okay. Neither was Cyclone.

But then he heard a number called on the system. It matched the number strapped to Thomas’s chest.

Levi looked up at them all. “Well?” he prompted. “You can’t all stand around here like fence posts, get out there. Wagner, you know that your horse can’t take the distance so keep his strides sharp. Leonhart, whatever you do don’t crash into anyone out there, we don’t want another one of those enquiries. And keep your horse _focused_ , don’t let him run away with you.” His eyes then shot to Jean’s. They hesitated. Jean may have even seen them soften a fraction. “Kirschtein, tell your mare what she was born to do. She’ll do it.”

And that, it seemed, was the last words of wisdom he gave them. Jean mounted up and gathered his reins, trying to prevent an excitable Sina from charging forward as Thomas trotted to where the stands and course were waiting. He let out a sigh. Now or never. He could do this. He’d done it loads of times before. But why was he so nervous?

It was then that he saw the giant black horse stop short at the end of the arena, snorting like a dragon and fighting the hold on him, and realised that if that monster was competing, he had a reason to be nervous.


	4. The Brave are Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ayyy so we got a new Hackamore chapter out (finally!) This one was giving me a bit of trouble, maybe because I fell into a funk for the past few days and writing's felt like an uphill struggle, but it is here, it is long, and it is hopefully enjoyable!  
> Jean is a chatty bastard, this chapter was not meant to be this long UGH
> 
> But anyway, in this chapter you'll see Jean's round, further interaction with Marlow (eesh) and Eleanor Bodt is back on the scene. Everyyybody loves Eleanor! 
> 
> My tumblr is here if you'd like to ask anything you don't wanna comment with: attackonmyponderland.tumblr.com
> 
> Thanks for supporting this guys, as ever, and enjoy!

Just because Jean didn’t necessarily care about winning, it didn’t mean he couldn’t get competitive. The thought of winning, the thought of passing every other rider and coming out on top, was ingrained into his genes. The Kirschteins didn’t _lose._ They didn’t bow to the likes of anyone. Even if Jean was a little fuzzy on the finer details, the desire to please was there- and to please, he had to win.

The fizz of competition he knew so well bubbled up through his body as he turned Sina around and around in the tiny scrap of ground before the main arena, and threatened to leave him dizzy. She was blowing excitedly through her nose at the sights and sounds of the arena beyond, an arena she could see perfectly from her place on the bordered patch of ground. He could feel her quaking beneath him, her entire body rippling with anticipation, and he had a job to hold her steady- hence the turning. But he knew the mare could feel it too- that energy, that crackling toxin that fuelled his limbs and kept them from shaking, the eagerness to get out there and smash the course to pieces. He tried to keep it under wraps, tried to keep calm for Sina. He found it hard, especially after seeing the state of his Academy’s scoring.

It had been high of course- enough to gain a smattering of applause from the crowd after every rider trotted out of the arena, but Jean’s eyes were on his father. Jacques Kirschtein was sat in the centre of the audience, brows furrowed and lips drawn thin.

His father was going to kill them if they didn't do well.

His father wouldn’t understand why they were worried about Cyclone. He wouldn’t understand why _Jean_ cared especially; Cyclone didn’t belong to them, after all. Cyclone wasn’t his father’s investment. He hadn’t seen the way that Bertholdt had folded into Reiner’s chest like paper after Levi led Cyclone away, limping badly. Jean had just watched from the sidelines, fiddling with Sina’s stirrup leathers and trying to look busy whenever Reiner caught his eye. He didn’t know what to say, so he chose to say nothing. Nothing was the best thing. His father saw _none_ of that. Even as he stood waiting for his turn, Jean could imagine Jacques in the stands grumbling to Bertholdt's father about how even a top trainer like Levi couldn't get him the results he wanted. Levi couldn’t make the Academy better. Couldn’t make _Jean_ better.

Jean growled at the thought and turned Sina back to face away from the arena.

Annie was the only one who seemed unfazed. She trotted past Jean with a cold expression when her name was called, hands firm on the reins even as Killarney fought for his head and pawed the ground. When her time came, she ran it through like clockwork. Killarney was a force to be reckoned with- imported in from the coast, he was highly strung and difficult to control. But control him Annie did, and the pair worked strangely well together. Killarney didn't just jump the fences- he attacked them. And his attacks were brutal.

Annie cut corners. She gave him kicks instead of nudges if he didn't listen to her aids well enough. Jean even saw her yank on the gelding's tender mouth the moment before take off. He winced. Annie had her methods, alright, and none of them exactly orthodox.

Still, she got the crowd's attention; they watched with intrigue as she stormed around the course, all gossip and talk forgotten. That was what Jean loved about competing. The tension that rippled through the crowd as though it was a physical thing. They would watch the horse and rider silently, their faces gaunt with concentration like they were the ones jumping. Jean knew he was onto a good round if the audience looked like they envied him. Annie was definitely giving the crowd that feeling.

He watched in somewhat bitter awe as she finished clear and in a competitive spot, and that was when the roar of triumph went up from Reiner. Sina jumped at the noise. Jean leaned forward in his saddle to squint at the stands and saw Reiner shouting his praises from Colossus’s back. "Yeahh, go on Annie! Show 'em what you got!"

She gave him a brief grin and punched the air with a howl of triumph as she gave Killarney his head. The gelding galloped full throttle out of the arena, stopping only once Annie had vaulted off him and grabbed for his reins.

Jean smiled. Reiner tried his best. Even when they were stood together feeling hopeless and worried, he managed to dredge up the remains of enthusiasm and motivation he kept for such occasions. And Jean was grateful to him for that.

Thomas was next, and Jean decided to join in with Reiner’s hollers of encouragement. It seemed to do some good; Boolie stopped napping after the first jump, and even pricked both ears after the second oxer. Thomas was speeding up, and speeding up well. Boolie took the wall jump at a heavy canter, snorting heavily as he landed, and the combination yielded under his rolling hooves too. Thomas finished with an impressive (for Thomas) but disappointing (for Trost Academy) score after Boolie's hind hooves knocked a pole just a little too hard to keep it standing.

Jean was more worried about Reiner. Behind his gruff optimism, he was really, _really_ worried about Bertholdt. Worrying made him distracted, that much was obvious, but even as he thundered into the arena with Colossus chuffing like a steam engine his eyes weren't even on the jumps. They were on Bertholdt, stood on the sidelines next to Levi, bandy arms wrapped across his chest and eyes on the ground.

Jean wasn't surprised Reiner didn't do as well as he usually did; Colossus could sense his rider wasn't concentrating, and started to drift himself. Reiner kept the pace tight and controlled, but Colossus couldn't jump alone. Without Reiner's guidance, the gelding was stuck.

He jumped the first few uprights fine, huffing and puffing as he bore down upon each obstacle, but the slate grey combination near the end of the course (Jean later learned it was nicknamed 'the Wall combination' and was infamous) was too technical for the dark bay to handle. He was forced to break stride on the second part of the combination, launching himself over it with power he should have kept for the end, which lost precious time.

They finished within a good time, but it wasn't the best. By then, Jean's teeth were gritted and his hands were moulding into fists as he clenched the reins tight.

_It wasn’t the best._

He could visualise his father’s lip curling, his eyes narrowing, the annoyed huff he made when things weren’t going his way, and he nearly cut crescents into his skin with his nails. He had to show him. He had to show him that he was fast, that he was good, that he could get even better if he had the chance.

The girl with the black hair was still waiting for her turn, but she was keeping her distance. Jean didn't blame her; after the stunt Annie had pulled, she was bound to be wary. Her eyes didn’t leave him though, narrowed and sharp as she watched him like a falcon on a perch, and Jean gulped back the lump in his throat. Did she know what pressure was? What it would mean to not place? Her mare shifted lazily, resting a hind leg with a grumpy sigh, and Jean guessed she probably didn't. She was called a few moments after, and she gave him a calm nod as she passed.

Jean couldn’t watch her. He turned Sina around, walking her around the practice ground for a moment longer and trying to block out the sound of thudding hooves and applause and shouting and just let him focus on Sina. She felt tuned into him, ears twitching at every move his legs made, and when he leaned down to pat her she seized up. “Careful girl, you’re alright,” he soothed, rubbing circles into her coat until he felt the tension vanish.

" ** _Up next, Jean Kirschtein of Trost Riding Academy!_** " rang out the announcer, and Jean blanched. He tightened his hold on the reins enough to stop Sina dancing at the sound of the tannoy and turned her back.

_This was fine. This was okay. Breathe. Your horse is a finely oiled machine, she has centuries of good breeding running through her veins. She will do this for you._

He inhaled sharply, gave Sina a gentle nudge with his heels, and the mare trotted delicately towards the entrance. Jean had to wait a moment for the ground crew to make sure everything was in order and there were no faults to be added onto Mikasa’s score (there wasn’t).

A tiny creature inside Jean’s stomach raised its ugly head and squirmed just enough to make his heart fly into his throat. He glanced at the chunk of crowd he could see from where he was stood, and saw that his father’s seat was empty. His stomach, if it were possible, dropped further. It didn’t dip into disappointment however; it bypassed that and took a swan dive into anger. How _dare_ he leave before seeing him? Jean wanted to show him what he could do- the least he could do was to humour him. He growled in frustration, and Sina mistook his anger for nerves as she shook beneath him. He could see the dark smudge of Marlow a few seats up; he wasn’t paying attention, but at least he was there. He would be watching once Jean got out. He had to. Didn’t he?

_Would he? He didn’t want to be here in the first place. Maybe he’s humouring you too._

Jean bit his lip. He didn’t have time to think like that. He had to focus. Forget Cyclone. Forget Marlow. Forget his father. Forget everything.

_But god, did it **sting.**_

Sina felt it. He knew she did. That was why, the moment he was given the nod, she shot into the arena like a bullet, Jean barely hanging on as she threw her head up and tried to plunge into the air with high spirit. Jean brought her under control, but the anger still seethed beneath the surface.  Marlow hadn’t looked up. _Damnit._

He was the last one riding for Trost Academy, seeing as he was a last minute addition. All of his teammates were at the bottom of the stands, cheering and whooping and throwing as much praise as they possibly could his way. He noticed Reiner giving him an encouraging smile as he burst into the arena and managed a weak smile back. Reiner nodded slowly, his eyes saying, ‘ _kick their asses’_ but his smile saying ‘ _we’re here for you’._ Jean felt something inside him settle, just a little bit.

But then he was turning Sina into the first jump, feeling how she immediately poised herself as she saw what was coming. He sat to her stride with caution. Took a breath. Nudged her with his heels. Counted her hoofbeats in the space between.

_Onetwothree onetwothree onetwothree..._

They were over.

Amid the roars from Reiner and the slightly less violent sounding cheers of Thomas and Annie, Jean turned Sina towards the next jump, another vertical. He knew the moment he’d landed he was going too fast. But he couldn’t bring himself to care. _Let me crash. Let me break down. Maybe then I’d give enough of a show to be worth watching._ He tried to ignore the snide voice in his head telling him to push it even faster as he swept around to the first oxer. Jean felt like he was galloping along one of the many dirt tracks back at the Academy; he was leaning into Sina’s withers, his hands moving loosely against her neck to urge her on, and even though he knew it wasn’t the typical jumping position, it was doing some good.

Sina wasn't used to taking distance jumps at speed, but as they got closer she arched her neck and snorted with disdain. Jean listened. He loosened his grip on the reins, gave Sina her head, and they sailed over it like it was nothing. After landing he gathered up his reins again, keeping her strides short and snappy despite the blindingly fast pace they were setting.

They had cleared the first oxer, and then the second, the speed snatching Jean’s breath from his lungs. Sina turned sharply at the corner to spring off her hind legs to the right. The wall jump was looming, and Jean made sure to check Sina before she sailed over, skidding on her haunches to dart towards the next set of jumps, and he dared to look up at the crowd. Marlow was staring at him now, brows vanishing up into his hair, and Jean smirked. _Yeah. That fucking taught you._

They hit the first part of the Wall combination a little too fast, and Jean knew it. They had practically hit it at a gallop after all. He shortened the mare’s stride as best he could between the two obstacles and hoped she’d listen. If she had her nose to the wind there was no way in hell she was going to stop. But she did. She slowed down, one ear flicking back as if to reassure him she was okay, she was paying attention and asking him what to do next. He straightened up, gathering the reins carefully, and took the second part of the combination a little wonky. His heart dropped when he felt the knock of Sina’s hoof against the pole. He swore under his breath. He’d tried to be careful. _Please stay up, please stay up, please stay up,_ he prayed as he shortened her stride even further. The lack of wincing from the crowd suggested that, this time, Jean was lucky. The pole had stayed in place.

The next jump was clean, Sina bounding over it like a veteran, and then they were galloping for home, the only jump in their way the last vertical. Jean straightened her up as they got close, but he needn’t have bothered. Sina landed on the other side with a pleased snort and a clear round. He may have got points deducted for her hoof touching the pole, but he’d gone _clear._

_Suck on that._

He slowed Sina to a walk as they reached the exit, and he turned in his saddle to grin at the energetic whoops and howls coming from Reiner. He raised a hand to the crowd, not being able to help himself as Sina launched into a fizzy trot, and let his grin get even wider when he spotted none other than Marco from earlier gawping at him from the seats. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t see a wink from where he was. He did it anyway. _Smooth._

“Jean, you were great!” Reiner said warmly as he dismounted, grabbing hold of Sina’s reins as Jean ran up her stirrups. “You got a really good score, man, good job.”

“Thanks,” Jean said, and meant it. “Knowing you guys were there cheering for me kinda helped.”

“I thought so.” Reiner grinned. “I know you by now, Jean Kirschtein. I know you crave an audience.”

Jean flushed and ducked his head underneath Sina’s saddle flap in order to loosen the girth. “Shut up, anyone likes being cheered for.”

“Not as much as you though.”

Jean decided not to dignify it with a response. He had a feeling Reiner knew that Jean’s mind had been more on the black haired boy barely watching from the stands than the course itself. Reiner wasn’t blind, and he was in no way an idiot.

“You went around the majority of the course like a bat out of hell, though,” Reiner prodded gently. “What got you so riled?”

Jean shrugged, giving Sina a scratch on her shoulder. “Stuff,” was his eloquent answer.

“Stuff. Right.” Reiner nodded. His expression sobered when Jean didn’t hit him. “Jean… you shouldn’t have asked him to come if you thought it was going to-”

“He’s never come before,” Jean muttered, ducking under Sina’s neck to get to the other stirrup. “I didn’t know what it’d be like.”

“And…?”

Jean paused after rolling up the other stirrup and tucking the leather out of sight. He debated on not telling. He was in his right to just shoulder past Reiner and lead Sina back to the trailer. But this was his friend, his close friend. He let out a sigh. He frowned. He rubbed his neck.

“That bad, huh?”

Jean shot him a glare, but it melted quickly. “Well he couldn’t have looked less bored if he tried. Could barely be bothered to keep his selfish fucking head up.”

Reiner whistled out a sigh. “Ohh dear.”

“Yeah fucking ‘ohh dear’, what the hell is wrong with me?” Jean ran a hand through his hair as he talked, occasionally turning back to fiddle with girth straps that didn’t need touching. “The only time he looked up was when I was tearing around that thing like we were gonna crash.” He frowned. “Am I really that boring?”

Reiner draped an arm around him and pulled him in close. “Jean. We both know you’re not that boring. But will you listen to me?”

Jean frowned. “I try…”

“The answer is no, Jean. No, you do not listen to me. Because what do I know?”

“Ugh, Reiner, don’t be that way…”

At that moment, a loud whinny erupted from the entrance to the arena. Jean frowned. He thought he was the last competitor; he had been the last minute addition and his father had been told there were no exceptions. His eyes snapped open.

Suddenly, he remembered.

“R-Reiner, can you put Sina back in the trailer for me?” he asked, thrusting the reins into his friend’s free hand.

Reiner eyed him strangely. “I didn’t think you liked other people doing your dirty work,” he said.

“ _Please_! I’ll pay you back!” Jean hissed, jogging to the stands before Reiner could refuse. How could he have forgotten? In all the excitement, he thought he’d missed it. But then again, he was sure he would have noticed the giant black horse storm through a round before him.

He shouldered his way to the front of the railings, shoving over a few rival competitors in the process, and slumped on the white barriers to catch his breath. Maybe Titan _had_ been a last minute addition- Marco had said he wasn’t the one riding him, so they might have been forced to change the rider for some reason…

“Hey Jean!” Thomas greeted brightly. Jean was pretty sure he was one of the people he’d shoved aside. “You did a good round out there!” he piped up, ever polite in the face of rudeness. Maybe Jean could pick up some tips from him. Unfortunately, now wasn’t the time.

“Doesn’t matter right now,” he said gruffly. “There’s another rider.”

“Bodt stables,” Annie said answering his unasked question. “Same yard piebald chick rode for.”

“They’re pretty good,” Thomas said. “I told you the Bodt family were good.”

“They’re not as good as us,” Annie sneered. “But that piebald…”

“Just you wait,” Jean added with a grin, “you haven’t seen this wild card they have up their sleeves.” _Emphasis on the ‘wild’_ , he thought wryly.

“Why you so interested, sweets?” came a voice from behind him, full of suspicion.

Jean didn’t even turn around. He knew who the voice belonged to.“I dunno, why were you so interested in your shoes? You seemed pretty fascinated with them the whole time I was jumping,” he spat.

“Don’t be cheeky.” Jean’s stomach coiled at the growl in Marlow’s voice.

He turned his head an inch to catch a glimpse of Marlow’s sour expression, the curl of a snarl that was just appearing. “Don’t be an asshole,” he stated, looking back to the course. When he heard the crunch of Marlow’s shoes step closer to him, he wilted a fraction. “I was just saying.”

“Well, just _don’t_.” Marlow’s hand appeared on the railing next to Jean’s. The chrome of one of his rings glinted as the sun caught it. “I came here for you, remember. No one else. Just you. Even if I was bored as fuck the entire time.” Jean’s stomach coiled tighter. “I watched you jump, sweets. You rode like a fucking demon.” Jean felt a stab of triumph at that. _So it did get his attention. Good._ “Think you’ll win?” Marlow asked.

“Maybe.” Jean chewed on his lip as he tried to ignore the way Marlow’s little finger bumped into his on the rail. Marlow was trying. He wasn’t doing an excellent job of it, but surely he could be given some credit for that?

A loud neigh pierced their conversation, and Jean’s eyes snapped wide. _Titan._

“ ** _Seems like his rider is having some difficulties, bear with us!_** ” said the tannoy cheerily. If this was a proper competition, they would be disqualified by now. Jean had to remind himself that Jinae wasn’t ever going to be considered ‘proper’. Still, he was more worried about the horse, working himself up into a sweat and being pulled around by that ignorant kid. He wondered how Marco felt about that; he didn’t seem the type to just sit by and let something bad happen to his horse. Jean liked to think that the other boy knew better than that. In fact, by the way Marco stared at his horse, Jean figured there was a sense of understanding between them, even if Marco seemed a little wary around him. There had been longing in those eyes too- but for what?

He scolded himself with a gentle kick against the railing post. _You’ve not known the guy ten seconds and you’re already feeling sorry for him. Sort your life out._

He focused back on the farthest side of the arena. If he squinted hard enough, he could see the giant form fighting the three people holding him. The horse behaved like a wild stallion, spinning on his haunches and tossing his head high to avoid the mess of people beneath him. Not that his rider was exactly helping matters; Jean didn’t miss the jerks on the gelding’s mouth, or the crop brought down hard on his hindquarters from the boy in the saddle. He winced. No wonder the horse was trying to rear up.

“We done now?” Marlow asked, breaking through Jean’s train of thought. He sounded bored. Jean could feel him pressing into the arch of his spine, his entire body threatening to fall into him if he wasn’t careful.

Jean remembered he was supposed to be angry. “If you want to go, you can,” he said whilst keeping his eyes firmly on Titan. “I have another round to go after this.”

“You didn’t tell me that.” There was an edge to Marlow’s voice- like he was trying to hold back the sheer strength of the groan he wanted to emit.

Jean shrugged. “Thought you’d be okay with staying for the next round.” _Like an idiot, I thought you might be impressed._

“You’re full of daydreams, Jean.” Jean tried to sulk at that, but he got a hair ruffle for his trouble and an amused chuckle void of much warmth. “Boris is meant to be meeting me here in a minute. His car’s gonna conk out any minute, keeps backfiring like nobody’s business. We gotta go get it fixed.”

 _Of course he was._ Jean didn’t have the energy to argue that the car wasn’t even Boris’s; one of their spoils of war, as Marlow so gleefully informed him the first time he pulled up in it. Jean wasn’t even sure he wanted to know what that implied. He was probably better off not knowing.

As the bell rang for the beginning of Titan’s round, he phased everything out; the crowd, the concerned glances from Thomas, the complaints of Marlow. Everything. He was just focused on the reins that were released, the ears that flicked forwards, the muscle that shifted. Titan leapt into a canter from a standstill like he was beginning a cavalry charge, jolting the boy in his saddle- Eren, was that his name?- backwards. The battle that had begun between the two before they entered the arena was now beginning again. Eren was hauling back on the gelding’s reins, trying to subdue him, but Titan only seemed to slacken his stride on his own terms, the bit between his teeth and nostrils flaring pinkly as they tore around the edge of the arena. Once the gelding caught sight of the jumps, he started to pay attention. Jean couldn’t take his eyes off the giant shape as Titan swept towards the first vertical in a large curve.

“Are you even _listening_ to me?” Marlow demanded at the same second Titan left the ground. “Jean!”

“No,” he answered. Titan landed, albeit sloppily, but he landed clear. “I’m not listening.”

“Then I’m not staying.” Jean was sure Marlow said it as an ultimatum. In fairness, it usually worked. It would be enough for Jean to look round, to tell him not to go and he was sorry. But for some reason, Jean didn’t feel like doing anything close to that. He just wanted to watch. Marlow waited a second or two longer than normal, but then he scoffed. “Fine. Whatever.” His hand vanished from the barrier, as did his body heat. Jean didn’t even twitch. He definitely couldn’t peel his eyes away from the course to see him go. He was sure he’d regret it later, with the dark looks Marlow would cast his way.

_Don’t think about that. Focus on the course. Watch this horse. Watch him._

Titan took the next vertical with ease, the fire in his eyes blazing on the landing. Jean could see every muscle flex, every laboured breath, every flick of fetlock as the pair cantered to the oxers. They took both with ease too, Titan shortening his gait in the space between before shooting off the ground with a stride to spare. Eren did nothing to dissuade the gelding; in fact, Jean was sure he did nothing at all. He was sat there like an ornament, a formality, as Jean was sure Titan would be able to breeze the course all by himself.

He outshone most of the competitors Jean had seen. He wasn’t the type of animal that just looked good in the paddock. He had heart, he could jump, and he was beautiful. He could _win_ this, and Jean felt his chest throb at the thought.

Then the bang went off.

Titan had been heading towards the next jump in a wide arc; Jean was forced to watch him shatter like glass at the sudden noise. With a squeal, the gelding leapt to the side and broke into an erratic gallop. His ears were back and his eyes were rolling. _Shit._

Jean felt cold. His heart was still racing, but this time it was for all the wrong reasons. He wanted to do something. Had to do something. But what could he do?

Eren couldn’t control him. No matter how hard he yanked, Titan kept galloping. He had the bit between his teeth and terror directing him forward, and there was nothing Eren could do. They were charging for the wall jump- at an angle that looked impossible, and a speed that rivalled Jean’s.

“Doesn’t look like we’ll have a problem with this one,” Annie commented calmly.

“Don’t be cruel, Annie!” Thomas snapped. “W-what if the horse gets hurt?”

 _What if he gets hurt? Hurt like Cyclone?_ Jean gripped the railing with whitening knuckles. For the first time in his life, he prayed for a horse that wasn’t his own to make it over the jump. He prayed hard.

Unfortunately, whatever deity he prayed to wasn’t on his side. Titan bulldozed straight into the fence like he’d forgotten how to jump, his collision kicking up chunks of turf and bricks that flew in all directions. Jean saw the gelding’s neck crest as he went down, his huge body twisting like a shadow in the dust cloud he kicked up. He couldn’t see the rider. He could only see the horse, trying to right himself and screaming when he found he couldn’t. Because that’s what the noise sounded like- screaming. _His scream sounded human._

“TITAN!” someone roared from the stands. Jean’s heart clenched. _Marco._

Everything happened too fast after that. Jean turned to the stands, trying to search out Marco’s face in the crowd. When he saw a tall individual rush through the stunned group of people, he pushed off the rail and bolted towards him with as much speed as he could muster. He couldn’t see what Titan was doing anymore; the horse could have a broken leg as far as he knew. Maybe he was still lying there in the rubble, useless and in pain. He gritted his teeth and dared to glance back at the arena. He was relieved to find that the gelding was trying to push himself back onto his feet, hooves thrashing in the grass and gouging out muddied scars in the earth. He was still screaming. Eren wasn’t on his back; Jean guessed he’d been thrown clear and was nursing his wounds somewhere behind Titan’s bulk, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Let me through!”

Jean stopped dead as he saw Marco. He was trying to shove past the showgrounds steward, but the guy was having none of it. Jean set his mouth in a frown and made to step closer, to demand the steward let Marco through to see what was happening with his horse, but then he noticed the blonde instructor from earlier race towards Titan. He watched as he reached the panicking gelding and started to pull at the reins, persuading the gelding to get up. Then he noticed the way one leg was trapped against Titan’s chest. _The reins. That was why he wasn’t getting up._ He watched the flash of silver as Erwin cut through the leather tangled in the gelding’s forelegs.  Titan leapt up like a deer let loose from a snare with an angered squeal- and Erwin couldn’t out of the way in time.

Titan’s hoof kicked out in his desperation to stand, and there was a sickening _crack_ as it hit Erwin’s left knee. The impact sent the instructor backwards into the dust, a horrified cry from the crowd convincing Jean that _yes that knee was smashed holy shit._ Titan spooked at the noise and bolted to the other end of the field, broken reins flapping around him and only driving him on faster.

“NO!”

Jean went cold. That sound was so desperate, so agonised. It punched him in the gut like he was the one watching his horse break down in front of him. Before he knew what was happening, the boy he’d known for about three hours ducked under the railing and charged towards the centre of the arena, his gait a little disjointed but his teeth set. “Titan!” he called out. Jean made to follow him, but the steward managed to block his path.

“No way, kid. I ain’t letting another mental case onto that field.”

Jean scowled up at him. “But he needs _help!_ ” he demanded. “Can’t you call someone?!”

“They’re on their way,” was the blunt response. “Just step back, or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

It was bullshit. It was utter, utter bullshit. But Jean shut up. He shut up, and he watched as the giant black horse stopped dead, sliding under his own weight at the sound of his owner’s voice. He was shaking from head to foot, from fear or anger Jean couldn’t tell, but when he caught sight of Marco he seemed to make up his mind. He swung around on his hind legs, half-rearing as he did so, and burst into a gallop, head down like he was getting ready to headbutt him. Jean lost all his breath.

Erwin shouted a warning, but Marco didn’t move. Jean couldn’t see whether he was frozen in place from sheer terror or whether he knew exactly what he was doing; he was too far away for that. And all the time Titan was tearing up the ground between them, his laboured breath roaring from his chest like a dragon, and Marco still _wasn’t fucking moving._ Jean was leaning so far forward on the railing he was close to toppling over them, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. What the hell was the guy playing at?

Then he started waving his arms. It was a frantic, jerky movement, like Marco was making it up as he went along, but Jean spotted Titan’s ears flick forward. But still, he galloped. Still, he got closer. Marco’s movements got even more frantic. Titan was strides away from trampling Marco under his thundering hooves when Marco took a step forward and bellowed, “STOP!” at the top of his lungs. “ENOUGH!”

What happened next, Jean couldn’t believe.

Titan _listened._ The horse _listened._

He skidded to a halt inches from Marco, rearing up to avoid crashing into him completely , and dear _god_ Jean thought he was big before. Now he looked like one of the horses cast in dark marble at the front of a museum, all fire and limbs and rage. Marco fell to the ground and scrambled backwards to avoid the mass of hooves, and it was lucky he had; if he had been stood up for a beat longer, Titan’s hooves would have cost him a one way trip to the hospital. Titan’s eyes were rolling to show the whites, his teeth were bared behind the silver bit in his mouth, and as he swiped the air with his hooves and gave a guttural neigh the stands went quiet. He had stopped. This giant, practically mythical horse had stopped. Just like that. Just because Marco had told him to.

Jean ducked under the rail before he knew what he was doing, and noticed Levi do the exact same thing from the left. He wasn’t even aware Levi was still watching; he was usually back at the trailers after the first round to check the horses over. Jean kept on running even when Levi slowed down to a walk. The trainer caught his eye across the ground and glared at him. Jean dropped to a slow jog. Levi glared harder. He walked.

Levi strode up to Titan without a hint of fear, the gelding now back on all fours and panting for breath like a steam engine. Before the horse could react, Levi grabbed hold of the broken reins under his chin and held fast. Jean expected Titan to fight back, to rear up or pull away, but he was pleasantly surprised. The gelding jerked his head around a little, surprise more than anger leading his head, but once he realised the trainer had him well and truly under control, he went still. Jean let out a sigh of relief- then saw the way Levi was glaring down at Marco, still on the floor. _Ah, crap._

“What the fuck do you think you were doing, running out of the crowd like that? You could have been _killed_ , you idiot,” Levi was snarling at him. Jean rolled his eyes. Levi just _had_ to start lecturing, didn’t he? He couldn’t get through an hour without a scolding, and Marco wasn’t even a student of his. Jean swore Levi just got a kick out of it. And with Marco staring up at him with a look of utter horror, Levi’s ego was probably sky-rocketing. Must’ve been nice for him to be the tall one for a change.

Still, he was intimidating Marco enough; the poor boy was losing colour the longer Levi was stood over him, and even Titan was starting to eye the man holding him with hesitation. Jean quickened his pace. _It would just be his luck that Levi would scare Marco off._ He wasn’t sure what he was scaring Marco off _from,_ but the point still stood. “Don’t be so hard on him, Levi,” he said as he got within shouting range. “He just escaped being people jam.” Once he got close enough to lay a hand on Titan’s neck, he saw just how frightened Marco looked. He wasn’t sure whether it was from his horse or the telling off he was in the middle of receiving. He imagined it was a bit of both.

“N-no, he’s right,” Marco said in a voice barely higher than a mumble, sitting up with a wince. “It was stupid.”

“Well, yeah it was,” Jean admitted. Marco flinched at that. “Pretty damn brave though,” he added hurriedly afterwards. Marco didn’t look to be in the mood to say much more, so Jean did the sportsmanly thing and reached out a hand. You know, all in good faith and all that. He had to show _someone_ he wasn’t some sort of prim and preened alien from another galaxy. Unfortunately, that was exactly the look Marco was giving his hand as he wiggled his fingers at him. Jean couldn’t help chuckling, although the look stung a little. “What? They don’t have suckers.” _I’m a real person. I’m not a robot. I have feelings, I swear, even if my father doesn’t._

Marco blushed a pretty pink at his words (he blushed a lot, Jean noticed) and took his hand. Marco’s hands were rough with toil and hard labour, but they were honest hands full of warmth that gripped strongly when Jean pulled him up. “Th-thanks,” he said. “B-but… I’m really not brave…”

Jean raised a brow. The guy had to be kidding him, right? He had ran out in front of a galloping horse, a horse that might have killed him, and got him to stop. He couldn’t think of any other word in the dictionary capable of describing him.

“You’re right,” Levi snarled, “you’re a first class idiot.”

_Okay, that word **could** have been a contender._

Marco dropped his hand. Jean missed the contact. “I just… didn’t want Titan to hurt himself,” he said softly. Jean’s heart went out to him. The poor guy just wanted his horse to be safe. That was the reason he’d run out there, the reason he’d flung himself in front of the monster bearing down on him and shouted an order. He didn’t want that same monster to break and become something he didn’t deserve to be. Jesus, Marco was something.

Levi snorted. “Hurt himself? He did a pretty good job of annihilating your instructor’s kneecap and narrowly avoided landing on his rider. This black demon’s the last thing you should be worrying about.” The way he looked at Titan suggested he wasn’t the gelding’s biggest fan. The horse stared innocently back, the fire in his eyes mere kindling now.

Jean couldn’t help the glare that curled along his lip. “You’re not helping, Levi.”

Levi just looked back at him. He didn’t even need to glare. Jean knew when to back down. He let his eyes drop from Levi’s after a moment, muttering obscenities under his breath about Levi being able to scare someone to death in the not too distant future, but no one listened to him.

Marco wasn’t paying attention anymore. His eyes were wide open, chest heaving a little quicker as the weight of what Levi had said hit him like a kick in the gut. “E-Erwin? Oh God, where is he?” he asked, looking from Jean to Levi in a frantic motion.

“I wouldn’t bother. “ Levi put a hand to Marco’s chest, holding him in place before Marco decided to bolt off in any direction. “The stewards have taken care of it, an ambulance is on the way.”

That didn’t calm Marco down in the slightest. “A-ambulance?!”

And so Jean was left with a new problem. He could have just wandered off, obviously, and gone back to the trailer to fuss over Sina and get her ready for the next round. But he didn’t want to. This boy was so nervous, so shy and stuttery and wonderful that Jean couldn’t pull himself away. It was like he was tangled in every broken syllable, every doe- eyed glance, every shy smile. Why would he want to abandon someone like that?

He knew he was probably cutting the boy far more slack than he usually would, and he was also prepared for the disgust of Levi and the shameless teasing he was going to get from Reiner afterwards.

No one, however, could prepare him for Eleanor Bodt.

Levi’s drole, “I think we’re about to get bombarded,” had been Jean’s only warning before a small woman with freckles to match Marco’s and a face like thunder strode towards them and grabbed the poor boy’s arm. She didn’t look like she was dressed for the competition, but the dark hair she’d pulled up into a bun earlier that day was breaking loose, waves and curls breaking free of their prison the more she shook her head. Jean didn’t have the chance to open his mouth and ask who she was before she’d given Marco a harsh smack over the head.

“Ow, mum!” he complained.

_Ah, the wrath of the concerned mother._

“You could have died, you stupid boy!” she snapped, hitting him again. “If you’d have been trampled I don’t know what I’d do! Oh, you stupid, stupid, stupid-”

Jean couldn’t help the smirk that rose to the surface as Marco’s mother assaulted him with smacks on both his head and arm, her eyes blazing angrily and mouth drawn into a thin line. Even though she was at least a head shorter than her son, the way he was wilting under her fierce glare made Jean snigger. She had power, alright. She was like a mother hen squawking at her offspring- in a way, it was cute. At least she cared enough to go mad on him. Then again, she was still hitting her son with every ‘stupid’ that came out her mouth. Poor guy, he probably put up with it a lot.

“Ow!”

“-stupid-”

“OW!”

“-stupid, stupid boy!” When the woman turned on Levi, Jean was pretty sure they would start scrapping like wild cats in the middle of the arena. Her lip was curled back in a characteristic snarl he’d seen on Levi multiple times, and he wondered if Levi was surprised at the lack of fear Marco’s mother seemed to show. His biting comments were enough to get the reins snatched from his hand and another cross word uttered in his direction that Jean hadn’t ever heard a parent use as she marched Titan away from them in a simmering rage. _Eesh._

He could have walked then, too. Everything was fine, everything was stable. He could have left. But he didn’t.

Even when Armin appeared from behind Marco’s mother and tried to scold his friend for exactly the same things Levi had, Jean stayed close. He tried to defend a boy he’d not known that morning from his friend who’d clearly known him longer. He felt a stab of concern when Marco pitched forwards with a hiss of pain. He did all these things for absolutely no reason at all. He expected Armin to give him one of those, ‘you’re a fucking idiot’ stares he’d perfected over the years, but it didn’t mean he didn’t get that flash of defence when he did.

He walked with Armin and Marco back to the trailers, not saying anymore. If he said anything else, he’d get himself put in the doghouse. But he still couldn’t stop the thoughts that galloped into his mind like horses themselves, wondering about Marco’s leg and the way he limped ever so slightly. Was that why he wasn’t riding his horse today? Had he been in an accident of some kind? He was avoiding Jean’s eye now, like he was ashamed Jean had noticed. Jean looked away too, but let a frown sprout on his face at the thought. Marco really didn’t have a shred of confidence; it had been peeled away, leaving nothing but shakes and limps and pain. Jean felt that familiar pull of curiosity, the pull that always got him into trouble as a child and did far worse now. He _wanted_ to know more.

Once they reached the tethering spot that had the words ‘Bodt Stables’ painted crudely into the sign stuck in the ground, he noticed Marco straighten up, roll back his shoulders, put on a face of strength for the flashing lights and concerned chatter that awaited him. Erwin was in that ambulance, and Jean could tell by the way Marco clutched at Armin’s sleeve and gritted his teeth that he felt at least partly responsible. Titan was _his_ horse, after all. “Go see him,” Jean urged, Armin and Marco’s eyes flicking to him in an instant. “He’s fine, honestly.” He swallowed down the strange lump in his throat. “I’ll wait here.”

He swore that there was a lilt of Marco’s lips at that. Like he was trying to smile, but couldn’t quite manage it. But then he turned his attention to the ambulance, and gulped. “A-Armin, help me get over there,” he said, words quaking as they left his mouth.

“Marco…”

“Please.”

Armin didn’t have the heart to argue. Jean watched them walk towards the ambulance with folded arms, Marco still limping and Armin still having to keep him steady for the majority of the walk. He hoped nothing would happen that was irreversible: Erwin was a horse person, he knew the risks. But there was still the worrying flutter that the _something_ could mean that Titan would get punished for it when there was no reason for him to be.

Jean had seen it too many times; a daddy’s princess would get bucked off her pony and she would call it ‘broken’ or ‘unrideable’ and that was it. The pony was sold off, daddy’s princess got a new horse and the cycle began all over again. A lot of Levi’s projects started out life like that; horses that were a little spooky and didn’t have the best guidance in the world, and they ended up in markets ready to be sold for labour… or worse. Jean had gone along to one of the markets with Levi before, and there was no way he was going back. Imagining Titan condemned as a dangerous animal was something that sparked fear into his intestines. It had been a noise that spooked him, surely everyone would know that…

Then his eyes snapped open.

It had sounded like a gunshot.

Like a _car_ was backfiring.

“ _Boris is meant to be meeting me here in a minute. His car’s gonna conk out any minute, keeps backfiring like nobody’s business.”_

Jean felt cold. He strode away from the tethering area, anger fuelling his legs and taking them nowhere in particular. It might have been a long shot, but that could have been the problem. God, Marlow could be so _stupid_. He should have known better. He should have known that horses were flight animals. Jean pulled his phone out from his pocket and made to text him, inform him in cutting tones that he was responsible for an accident, but then he saw the message he had waiting for him.

 **Marlow:**  
**_-sorry bout earlier I was a dick. we both were. Pizza tonight? My treat?  
-least I can do for bein dick_**

Jean sneered at the text, but felt his anger abating slightly. He fired back a simple ‘sure sounds good’ text and continued walking. He just had to calm down. Marlow didn’t do it on purpose. He didn’t mean for the car to backfire. He just didn’t understand.

“You look like you’re gonna walk to the moon and back with that face, kid.”

He stopped short at the voice, and glanced up from his shoes to see a pair of nostrils flaring rather close to his head. He blinked, and took a step back. The whole horse melted into view, and he gulped when he saw exactly what horse it was. Titan let out a low whickering noise and tossed his head, ears pricked forward and waiting for the next command. Jean had eyes only for Titan until his handler cleared her throat. It was Marco’s mother, her grip still tight on the gelding’s reins, but the anger was almost extinguished now. She even had a sort of smile on her face. Jean tried a half smile. “S-sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” he said.

“I could tell. You alright?” she arched a brow. “Eren and Titan took quite a tumble didn’t they? It’s a little scary to watch. Wouldn’t be surprised if you were a little wary of this idiot.” She gave Titan a hefty pat on his shoulder.

“I’m not afraid of him,” Jean blurted. When the woman’s eyes flew to him, he gulped. “Horses make mistakes. They get scared. They bolt. It happens. Doesn’t mean he’s any less safe now.” As if to clarify, Jean reached out a hand and offered it to Titan. The gelding snorted at the gesture of friendship, and allowed Jean to scratch his nose as reward for being so polite. Jean allowed a smile to grace his face as the giant leaned into the contact with a heavy sigh. “I was taught that if you show fear, a horse is more likely to act like they should be feared.”

She spotted the woman smile out the corner of his eye. “Spoken like a true horse person,” she said, sounding impressed. “What’s your name again?”

“Jean,” he said, holding out a hand for her to shake. When she took it he felt the same weathered grip he had from Marco. Her hands were tougher, though, roughened with the many reins and leadropes and buckles that had passed through her palms. Maybe it came with age. Jean wasn’t sure.

“Eleanor Bodt,” she greeted, her voice still a little intrigued. “And I mean it, Jean. You seem like you know what you’re doing. Never thought I’d see the day a Kirschtein spoke sense.”

Jean frowned, his attention diverted from Titan for the moment. “You know who I-?”

She rolled her eyes at that. “Of course I do. You can tell you’re a Kirschtein a mile off. You got your father’s shit eating grin.” She shrugged. “Not that it matters- you seem like a nice kid. I like being surprised.”

“Thank yo- wait does that mean you thought I wasn’t going to be nice?”

She gave a bitter laugh in response. “You’ve been away at boarding school, kid. You don’t know the half of what your father’s put me through.”

Jean flushed at that. Being put away out of sight and out of mind did tend to leave him out of the loop. He could guess what sort of things his father had been up to; he only had to remember the way his father had sneered up in the stands to know for sure. Kirschteins liked to win, but hated competition. That had always been the case. He gave Titan another absent pat, fingers creasing into the fat little braids they had strung his mane up into. “You must hate us,” he muttered, playing with the plump little knobbles of hair as he spoke.

“Hate is a strong word. But maybe a little.” Eleanor’s arms folded against her chest. Jean noticed a flex of muscle. “My life’s not exactly been a picnic, you know. And having **_him_** breathing down our necks hasn’t helped.” She shrugged. “But no one’s afraid of a little healthy competition. I do what I do, he does what he does. It’s just the way it goes.”

“It shouldn’t be that way.” Jean frowned at his own nerve, and stepped away from Titan before the gelding decided to nap on him. “I’m sorry about your instructor. Is- is he alright?”

Eleanor sighed. “Well, his kneecap’s pretty much smashed. He’ll walk again, thank God, but not for a few months. Prime lesson season, the summer. What are the odds?” Her smile wasn’t as warm as before. It was only then that Jean noticed the way her clothes were faded and sewed up in places where they had snagged on branches out riding. He lowered his head. He had the insane urge to apologise.

“I think a car backfired,” he said. “That might have been what scared him. I think… I think it might have been someone I knew.” He let out a short huff before he could get too emotional. It was his fault. It was his _fault_. If he had pandered to Marlow, begged for him to stay, maybe it wouldn’t have happened. No backfire. No accident. No injury. God, he felt like shit. He picked at his competition jacket idly as he waited for the shout or scold he probably deserved.

He twitched when a hand lay itself on his shoulder instead. “You’re a sweet one. You can’t blame anyone for it,” Eleanor said, the warmth back in her voice. “Accidents happen, sweetheart. Erwin knew the risks. I know the risks. So do you, and so does…” her voice trailed off. She continued abruptly, “Anyway, there’s no use feeling sorry for yourself. I’m sure we’ll find a way to keep out of the dust. We always do. Bodt family secret.” She winked.

Jean offered her a small smile. “Yeah… right…”

Eleanor gave him a toothy grin in return, and gave Titan a tiny pull with the reins. “Come on. I’m sure my son’s going to be apologising all over the place too. Best get this heathen back where he belongs, and stop my son from exploding.”

Jean found himself falling into step with her, his strides matching Titan’s lazy gait as he let a hand rest on his shoulder. The skin twitched when he first lay it there, but Titan was ignoring his presence a few minutes later. Jean smiled and gave him a gentle pat. He felt the itch of someone watching him, but was too polite to ask what Eleanor wanted. After all, he’d seen this woman go up against Levi and not back down; he didn’t want to incur her wrath. But still, the itch remained.

“You know why you surprise me?” Eleanor asked after a moment.

Jean frowned. “I’m not the one trying to swamp your business?”

She snorted. “Please, the stables was never a business. And partly that. You’re just not what I expected at all.”

Jean bit his lip. “What did you expect?”

“A boy who rode his horses hard then leapt off them and handed them to a stable boy the minute you could. I heard your father talking. It annoys him to shit that you actually _like_ the work and come in stinking of manure every night. A lot of people will hold that view of you, Jean, through no fault of your own. Me? Nah. It makes me admire you. Not many boys your age and with your money would do something like that.”

Jean tried to be modest. He’d never been praised for doing stable hands’ work before. It was a nice change. “I shouldn’t just get the nicer part of having horses,” he said. “I should help too. It’s only fair.” He wasn’t going to tell her that he did it to be closer to his horses. He wanted to build trust, and he couldn’t just do that from the horse’s back; he had to get down on their level too, get them used to him being around and… The tips of his ears flushed dark. _She won’t want to know. Just shut up, Kirschtein, and nod along with her._

Eleanor gave him a gentle smile. “Well, you’re one of the few who thinks it’s fair. No offence to you, but your father doesn’t really share your views, does he?”

Jean snorted. “No, not really.”

“But it’s working for him. Working for your Academy. Parents want to see their kids win shiny trophies and glossy ribbons, not trundle around a ring on a beaten down old pony,” Eleanor sighed. “We do our best. We do our best, but this showground is what keeps people coming back- the chance to get stuck into this world and have fun doing it. But I guess that’s changed now.” She ran her free hand through her hair. “God knows what we’ll do now we’re one instructor down. Hanji’s good, but she’s not superhuman. I can teach but it’d leave Marco to do the accounts and I can’t expect him to take on that responsibility…” Her mouth snapped shut like she’d realised Jean was still there, and she managed to drag up a weak chuckle from the inside of her worry. “It’ll be okay. We’ll have to manage. We’ve managed so far.”

That was when Jean had an idea strike him. It wasn’t necessarily a good idea, or even a well-informed one, but it didn’t stop him from spouting, “I could help you,” without thinking. Something close to nerves started beating its wings against his ribs. _He shouldn’t have said that. Shit._

Eleanor stopped short. Titan snorted in alarm and took a few steps back, an ear tilting back as he kept his eye on her. Eleanor’s, however, were perfectly trained on Jean. He blanched. Had her eyes really been that green before? “Help us how?” she asked.

At least she was straight to the point. Jean gulped. “W-well, I mean, I could help you. I could fill in for Erwin. I-if you want.”

He wasn’t sure if Eleanor looked surprised or insulted. “Jean, I wasn’t fishing for charity, you know,” she said. Her tone was taking a dangerous turn. “Do you even have qualifications for instructing?”

“No, but I’m learning.” Jean’s voice was a little broken, but he held it together enough to seem the opposite. “Levi’s taught me a few things. I worked with the yearlings we have. Taught my old horse to jump.” _My old horse._ Now that was a phrase that curdled in his gut.

“Teaching horses and teaching people is another kettle of fish. Horses tend to listen more, for starters.” She frowned as she looked him up and down. “You have no experience for teaching, no qualifications and I only just met you.” She quirked an eyebrow. “Not the best CV I’ve had.”

“I...” Jean sighed. “I know horses. And I know that sounds arrogant, but…” he shrugged. “I just do. I can’t explain it. And… I wouldn’t mind getting away from home for a little while. Dad can be a bit…”

“Overbearing? I’d never guess.”

“The offer’s there,” he said, unflinching. Eleanor didn’t seem sure; she chewed the bottom of her lip and cast her gaze out to the trailers and the ambulance. Jean waited, feeling like he was going to sink with each passing minute. It didn’t matter. It was a stupid idea, anyway.

She seemed to mull it over in silence, not even looking at him anymore. They started walking again, the trailers looming up closer than Jean expected. But still, she hung back. She halted again just before they got within earshot of the collected group. “I must be out of my mind…” she murmured. Her eyes flicked back to his, and he jolted at how sharp they seemed. “Do you mean it?”

Jean blinked, wrong-footed. “Er…”

“About helping out. Do you mean it?”

Jean was a little taken aback; he hadn’t dared hope she would agree to it. The little flutter started in his chest again. The idea of spending his summer around horses at all hours of the day with no need to make excuses made him grin helplessly. “S-sure. Yeah, I meant it,” he said. _Top notch eloquence there, Kirschtein. Well done._

What surprised him more than anything was that Eleanor let out a short chuckle. It was a nice sound, warm like her voice, and settled any warning churns in his stomach. “You’re an eager one. We’re not the Ritz, you know,” she said. “You’ll have to work hard.”

Jean nodded so hard his neck nearly snapped. “I know that, I’ll work. I’ll do anything.”

“You’ll have to muck out.”

“No problem.”

“You’ll have to-”

“I don’t care,” Jean interrupted her. He scuffed his boots in the dirt. “I wanna do all that stuff.” He didn’t have the heart to tell her that it was because he still felt responsible. She’d try to convince him otherwise, and he didn’t want that. He knew what he’d done. It was the last time he’d invite Marlow to a competition.

Eleanor gave a curt nod, a little half smile, and then they were walking forward again, Titan snorting tiredly between them. “I can get Hanji to help you out with the basics, to start with. She’s a little eccentric, but she has a heart of gold I swear. And Marco can always show you the different feeds we give and…”

Jean stopped hearing her. It sounded stupid, the fact that he hadn’t realised Marco would somehow be involved in all of it. But knowing that he would be around to guide him should he slip up was worth all the empty reassurance in the world. He found himself smiling as they walked, the fluttering feeling building to a crescendo in his stomach.

“Oh, _now_ what?!”

Jean tried not to chuckle too hard at the way she’d turned from energetic friendliness to ice cold annoyance (and tried not to think of how it reminded him of Levi) when he realised who she was talking to. His eyes snapped open. The fluttering might as well have been shot with an arrow for how abruptly it died within him.

The reason was stood about an inch away from a furious Marco with a sneer across his face. Jacques Kirschtein looked like the cat with the cream, and Marco couldn’t have looked more disgusted at that.

Jean gulped. _Oh, he was in the shit now._


	5. What Hurts The Most

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this took a little longer than it should've, but this is the Hackamore update! :D
> 
> To start off, I gotta throw out some warnings: this chapter deals with a lot of Jean's insecurities and is chock full of arguments. In fact, I think this chapter should be titled 'the one with all the arguments', cus trust me there are about three or four of em. There's also more of the toxic Jean/Marlow relationship, so if you like Marlow...yyyeah this kinda isn't the fic for you. Don't say I didn't warn you. 
> 
> Also, you know the equine trauma tag? Yeah. Well. Equine euthansia tw too. As a heads up. 
> 
> That aside, I hope you like the chapter...*whimpers* you know it gets better from here on in. You KNOW it does. Also you get to see Levi/Jean dynamics yaaaay funfunfun
> 
> As always, my tumblr is here for you to squawk angrily at me: attackonmyponderland.tumblr.com  
> Or y'know comment, cus I always reply even if it takes me forever :D 
> 
> E-Enjoy friends~

Jacques’s smile didn’t last long. 

Eleanor thrust Titan’s reins into Jean’s hands, startling both him and the horse on the other end, and stormed up to his father’s face with the same crackling temper she’d used on Levi. Jean hadn’t ever seen his father baulk before, but in that moment he could see him consider it. Marco was pushed back by his mother, stumbling to where Jean stood with a shaky exhalation of breath. Jean wanted to tell him that his father wasn’t all that scary, but by the way he was spitting venom at Eleanor he guessed it wouldn’t sound too convincing. Jean just tried to stand close to the other boy, hoping that by some stroke of luck his presence would help. He wasn’t sure it would, but it was all he had to offer. Marco seemed the nervous type.

His father was trying to buy Titan. Jean knew exactly what he was up to the moment he’d seen him with Marco. Jacques Kirschtein didn’t bother making snide remarks to just anyone; there was always something he wanted. And the moment he’d seen Titan fight his way out onto the course, Jean knew where his mind was going. _Jean, riding that black monster through course after course. Catching his breath as Titan launched himself over fences that horses like Buchwald could scarcely dream of. The energy crackling between them…_

He shook himself. It wasn’t his energy to use. Titan didn’t belong to him, and he wouldn’t have accepted even if his father had bought the gelding for him. At that moment he swore he felt the horse watching him, ears rotating like miniature radar ready to spring at the slightest sound of trouble. Being in such a close proximity to the restless gelding and the eminent fight brewing was making Marco nervous. He was scuffing his boots in the dirt and listening to Eleanor and Jacques bicker with a strained look to his face- almost like he was used to experiencing arguments. Jean sighed. _We’ve all been there, man._ But then when he answered Jacques in such a clear, unshakable _His home is here. With me_ , Jean had to catch himself. He found himself wondering if he would ever find someone who would proclaim that so openly and honestly for _him_.

And when Jean spoke up and told his father in no uncertain terms that he was going to be spending the summer helping at the Bodt yard, it hadn’t exactly gone down _well._

His father ignored him for the rest of the day, and once he saw that Jean gained too many faults to succeed in the final rankings, he didn’t even stay to watch Jean collect the blue ribbon marking him as second. Annie strutted away with the red. At least someone from Trost Academy _had_ won.

Jean was thankful he didn’t have to sit in the front seat with his father on the drive home. He had his own car, his own friends piled into the back along with Cyclone’s saddle, and his own stretch of road without having the passive aggression and ferocious looks from his father to contend with. There was a reason he’d learnt to drive as soon as possible; his car, at least, gave him some freedom.

Reiner was talking about the show to keep everyone’s mind off of Cyclone, but now the excitement and adrenaline had died down, what remained was a discomfiting fog of concern. Bertholdt was clutching his horse’s saddle like it was a buoy bobbing in the midst of an indefinite sea. He wouldn’t talk to anyone. Jean knew it was bad when Reiner tried to incite a conversation and Bertholdt just shuffled away and pressed closer to the window. He dropped them off without a word, merely nodding to Reiner and mouthing a soft ‘good luck’ as he stepped out of the car. Reiner gave a grim smile and ensnared his lanky boyfriend in a one-armed hug as they made their way up to Reiner’s redbrick house. Jean watched them reach the door before he pulled away.

He drove slowly. He knew prolonging the inevitable was not going to make it any easier, but he couldn’t bring himself to accelerate his car from a smooth glide. He knew what was waiting for him back home. His father was going to be _furious._ He drummed his fingers on the wheel as he turned down the long drive into the Academy.

He didn’t know if what he was doing was right. He was being given a responsibility he’d never had before, from a woman he barely knew and a boy he wanted to know more of. He was going to be living there, for the entire summer. He was working for room and board, and nothing else. He was going to be allowed near the horses as much as he liked. But what if it was a trick? A cheap, dirty trick that was being played on his father, and Jean was nothing but a pawn? He bit his cheek as he idled by the main yard. Eleanor didn’t seem the type to play power games; that was a Kirschtein move, and one Jean knew well enough to know when it was being played.

What if Marco hated him? He barely knew him, and Jean was muscling in on his space- surely he’d have something to say about that? But then Jean thought back to when his father surged towards him, angry at his witty comebacks and snarky attitude. He remembered the way Marco stepped in front of him, blocking his father’s ice cold stare and snarl, and then apologising profusely afterwards. Jean let a tiny smile grace his lips as he finally parked, cutting the ignition and flopping back into his seat.

Marco was twitchy, but he cared. He could see that, saw it in the way he stammered over Jean coming to stay and saying that it would be nice for a change. There was a sadness there too, but nothing Jean could find fault with.

Still, he unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the car with a grimace, hoping that he was ready for what awaited him inside.

The house was quiet when Jean slipped in. He knew it wouldn’t last, not if his father had any say in it. The moment the lock clicked and Jean turned to slink up the stairs, his father materialised in the hallway to block his exit, stone faced and arms crossed against his chest. His suit jacket was so new it crinkled at its edges like paper- a far cry from Eleanor’s sewed and patched up clothes. There came the guilt again.

“Jean.” His father’s voice was clipped and precise. It was the voice he used when he was fighting to keep his temper in check. It was the voice he often used for Jean, but Jean still couldn’t help but wince.

“I’m going to bed, sir,” he muttered. Maybe if he could inch round him he could make a run for it. Or at least duck into the kitchen and hide out there for a while.

“You’re staying right there.”

Jean heaved out a sigh. His father’s words didn’t quite paralyse the way they used to; he had enough guts to unstick his feet a little from when he was fourteen. Four years did him the world of good. “I’d like to go to bed, sir,” he repeated. “I’m tired.”

There was no Marco to step between them this time. Jacques didn’t even need to get close; they might as well have been standing on opposite sides of a glacier, but he could still hit Jean where it hurt. “Do you ever stop and think, boy?” Jacques asked. After Jean refused to respond, he barked a sharp, “Well, do you?” just to make him flinch. “Helping _them_ out, when we’re trying to make a good name for ourselves? Do you even remotely understand what that looks like?”

“I have no ide-”

“It looks like we don’t take anything seriously, Jean! It looks like we’re not competitive, that we prefer to strike up bonds with a struggling yard instead of focusing on our own training.”

Jean tried not to bite. “They’re honest people,” he said. “They just need help. Their instructor got hurt, it was the decent thing to do.” He tried to keep calm, tried to take some of the ice from his father and mould it to himself- but his brewing temper was making it melt as quickly as he picked it up.

“Decent?” Jacques’s eyebrow curved up along with the volume of his voice. “There’s no place in this life to worry about something like _decency_ , Jean. Especially when it looks like we’re offering someone like you to them…”

“What do you mean, someone like me?” Jean demanded. His temper was starting to crack the shell.

Jacques gave him a blank stare, like the answer to his question was common sense. “You’re inexperienced. You have no idea what you’re doing, you’ve never taught a day in your life and you have the social skills of a sewer rat.” Jean’s fists clenched at his sides. More cracks began to appear. _Any minute now._ Jacques even gave a short laugh. “Come on, Jean, don’t tell me you actually think you’d be of some _use_ to them? Struggling or not, they don’t want a disobedient kid like you.”

Jean couldn’t help it. He’d tried and he’d tried. He felt the skin of his palms stinging from where his nails were biting into them in his frustration, fists shaking with the effort of keeping any outbursts in check. The coil in his chest was too tightly wound, and he could feel it ready to lash out without warning. The shell could only take so much. Then it would splinter. This was the moment Jean exploded. “Well if I’m so useless, what are you so fucking worried about?!” he shouted.

“WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?”

“YOU FUCKING HEARD.”

And that was it. That was the trigger pulled for the both of them, both shells smashed and lying in pieces on the floor between them. The ice his father was known for was shattering, and Jean was force to dodge every shard of insult and criticism sent his way. They shouted. They screamed. They cursed. Jean and his father never had civil arguments; it was always too full of anger and frustration. What Jean didn’t let his father know was that every insult hurled at him felt like his own personal knife wound. That was the problem of living with a parent you fucking hated- you knew exactly what ammunition to throw to set them off, and so did they. Jacques knew Jean’s.

Mid-way through the argument, he threw it at him in a spitting rage.

“Your mother would be disappointed in you.”

That was what struck Jean cold, froze up his body from the inside out until any attempts at speaking were pointless. He didn’t know the right response to that- no she wouldn’t? She’d know he was doing the right thing? Jean barely remembered her. He didn’t _know_ her. How would he know if she would side with him or his father? The simple answer was he didn’t. And he never would. There wasn’t the slightest hope that she would come walking through that door.

Jacques’s eyes, as always, suggested an apology the moment the words escaped his mouth, but Jean was done. He didn’t want to hear empty words. His father pulled the card just to cut him down, and Jean hated how well it worked. Before his father even had a chance to draw breath, Jean had shoved past him and flown up the stairs, the word ‘ _disappointment’_ galloping around his skull like a loose horse.

Maybe he was the most typical teenager in the world, swinging his door open and slamming it so hard the hinges rattled. He certainly felt like one once he threw himself on his bed and tried to muffle his screams with a pillow. But the ice in his stomach, the ice put there by his father, rendered him incapable of anything else. He would not cry. He would _not_ cry. He would not give his father the satisfaction of hearing him, of knowing he’d got to him and that he was upset. Kirschteins didn’t cry, after all. They were nothing but steel and ice and bone. But as Jean lay there trying to calm his breathing, the pulse fluttering weak under his fingertips didn’t feel like it was made of any of those. Maybe he got his heart from his mother. He let out a tearless sob at that and rolled onto his side, muttering curses to his father downstairs.

He let grateful smiles infiltrate his mind. Smiles and sighs of relief and, “ _we can give it a try”_ s that warmed that ice and clogged the hole in his stomach just a little. Marco, telling him it would be nice to have someone else around. Marco, giving him that bashful little smile that Jean wished was a permanent addition to his freckles. He was wanted. He was going to be helpful. They were going to rely on him. Everything would be fine. He didn’t have to listen to anything his father spewed at him. That didn’t stop his pathetic sniffling as he sat up, scruffing a hand through his hair and remembering how to breathe without wheezing or wanting to kill something.

Marlow came back an hour or so after the shouting had subsided. Jean had stopped raking his hands through his hair by then, but the aftermath of the argument sat heavy on his chest. Jean didn’t have the energy to be angry with Marlow, too. He didn’t want a second shouting match on his hands. The moment Marlow got through the door, Jean enveloped him in a hug, causing a “woah!” and the pizza box in his hand to be thrust out of the way. “What’s the matter with you, sweets? Thought you were pissed at me,” he said. Jean definitely caught the surprise in his voice- he didn’t blame him. He _had_ been pretty pissed at him.

But he just clutched him tighter. Marlow had his faults, sure, but anything was better than nothing. Him being there thawed the ice in Jean’s stomach, at least. “C-can you stay tonight?” he asked.

“Can do.” There was a pause. “You sorry?”

“Yes.” Jean’s chest felt heavier. A bit more weight to add to the ice. He burrowed into Marlow’s jacket and the scent of engine oil assaulted his nose.

“Sure?” Marlow asked.

“Yes,” Jean sighed into his shirt. His reward was a brief one-armed hug, the engine smell clogging his nostrils as Marlow heaved out a sigh too. “Please stay,” he mumbled, casting a look over his shoulder. His father’s study remained locked to him. “I’d appreciate it.”

Marlow pulled away. “Trouble with the old man, huh?”

Jean nodded. “Something like that.” He wasn’t going to tell Marlow. He didn’t want two arguments in one day.

They went upstairs with the pizza, Marlow giving Jean’s ass a squeeze as they went, and Jean batted him away with a snort. The pizza ended up being Marlow’s favourite (anchovies), but Jean still devoured half of it (sans anchovies) before he flopped onto the bed in defeat. They didn’t talk much- they rarely did- but Jean was happy to put on some music and find somewhere to pin the rosette still crushed in his pocket.

“Did anyone ever tell you how amazing your ass is in those jodhpurs?” he heard Marlow ask from his place on the bed.

Jean grinned and turned to face him. “No, actually.”

“Except me?”

“Except you.”

Marlow moved from the bed then, and walked over slow enough to cause the tingles of anticipation to ignite. He got closer, closer, put his arms around his neck, and Jean felt something relax. It wasn’t everything, but it was a start. When Marlow’s lips found his they were scorching, claiming, and Jean melted into it, falling in deeper and sprinting for the part of Marlow he knew was hidden underneath all the bravado and smugness. He didn’t tap into it very often, but when he did…

“Sh- _Shit,_ sweets,” he heard Marlow hiss, and smirked. _Gotcha._

“Mm?” was all Jean said in return, planting a small kiss on the corner of Marlow’s mouth to make him curl his lip.

“You have any idea how much I wanna plough you into the mattress?”

Jean smirked. “I dunno, but it might be time to put your money where your mouth is.”

A sharp gasp for air answered his question, and without hesitation Jean was picked up and carried back to the bed, Marlow kicking the empty pizza box off its end to make room before practically throwing Jean onto the mattress. The squeak that came afterwards could have come from either Jean or the bed, Jean wasn’t quite sure, but whatever its origin, it was muffled by hot kisses and stifled gasps that Jean couldn’t hold back. Every time he heard a door slam, or possible footsteps along the hallway, he made an effort to be louder, especially when Marlow flipped him around and pushed his head down with a wet kiss to the back of his neck. _Yeah,_ Jean thought, _if you’re out there, you will fucking hear me._

* * *

Jean lost count how many times they did it that night. He wanted to say three or four, but the number was still fuzzy when the morning came and coherent thought tried to return. Every time he started to slip back, once the hazy aftershock of his orgasm abated and left him with the same worries he’d had to start with, he’d roll over and try to initiate more. Marlow would grumble, ask for five minutes, and then shove him back onto the mattress and start again. Sometimes it felt like Marlow was just going through motions, pointless little motions that didn’t really mean anything to him, but Jean didn’t blame him. He wondered if Marlow wanting him just as much as he _needed_ it could be considered using him. He wasn’t sure. They never talked about it, but there must have been some underlying sense that Marlow knew Jean was loud for differing reasons. Sometimes, though, it felt like the only thing he had as ammunition.

As Marlow slid out of him with a tired grunt, flopping across Jean’s back and burrowing his face in the sweat of his neck, he didn’t give Jean a chance to draw breath. “What the fuck’s your problem tonight?” he asked- though it sounded more like a demand.

“Hmm?” Jean wasn’t even capable of speech. Only a few slurring noises were allowed out of his mouth.

“You’ve been rolling around like some horny bitch all night, and whining like one too.” Jean felt a flash of pain as Marlow bit down on his neck. “I wasn’t pounding you that fucking hard, no need to start whimpering and whining like that.”

Jean felt a rush of heat hit his cheeks and travel down his neck to where Marlow was sucking a lovebite. “Y-you just got me at a good time,” he tried. It didn’t work.

“Whatever, just don’t be so fucking noisy. I don’t like it.” The warmth of Marlow’s tongue washing over the lovebite once it was done made Jean flush even more.

Jean wanted to bite back. He wanted to shove Marlow away and tell him he never asked for his opinion and that if he didn’t like it he could leave. But then came the crushing black doubt that slipped under his door and curled around his spine. If Marlow left, Jacques would be the only one left. Those same cold eyes and sharp words. Jean shuddered. He heaved out a sigh, turned his head and kissed the edge of Marlow’s lips, trying to ignore the way Marlow jerked away an inch. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Marlow’s eyes softened, if only for a second, and the foolish part of Jean thought that he might have realised that he still wasn’t in the best of moods. Maybe he’d want to talk about it. But then Marlow just grunted something unintelligible and turned over. Jean watched his bare back for a moment, something in his chest aching terribly, but after he saw the muscles relax and Marlow’s breathing calm, he knew he had no chance. He wasn’t going to be talking to him any time soon. He let out a small huff, dragging himself up from the bed and wincing at how he seemed to ache everywhere. Marlow wouldn’t even make an effort to be smug; he’d just complain when Jean asked to go a little gentler the next time he came over.

Jean practically tripped into the bathroom to shower himself off, standing under the scalding torrent of water for far longer than necessary. Some part of him didn’t just want to wash off the remains of sex remaining on his body- it wanted to wash off _everything._ His father’s words, the bruises he’d inevitably gain, the sound of disgust in Marlow’s voice... he wanted it all to just vanish, get washed down the plug hole with everything else clinging to his skin. He threw his head back and let out a hiss through his teeth as his scalp burned from the treatment. _Think about where you’re going. Think about your summer. Think how good it’s gonna be to get out._

He thought of Eleanor Bodt’s grateful expression, her no nonsense way of speaking, the arrogant toss of her head every time she stood up to someone who deserved it. Working for someone like her, a real horse person, was something he desperately, desperately wanted. He wasn’t going to let the opportunity slip out of his reach. He was going to work there all summer. He was going to be okay.

He turned the shower off, and stepped out with another wince. He had to keep going. It wouldn’t be for long. Just another week. He could do another week of avoiding his father- he’d done a pretty good job of it the last few summers, after all. A snore coming from his room suggested that Marlow was well and truly out for the count, and Jean bit back the sinking feeling in his stomach. Marlow was tired. He’d been pushing him again. Jean couldn’t feel guilty about something he’d started in the first place.

He ended up slipping out of his bedroom with a change of clothes tucked under his arm anyway, the emptiness in his stomach partly to do with hunger (he really did _hate_ anchovies) and partly to do with the boy passed out in his bed. He changed in the hallway, checking the clock at the end of the hall for the time. 11:45. His father would definitely be asleep. He pulled on the faded jeans Jacques hated seeing him in and a grotty jumper he was sure he’d had since he was fourteen and left, shutting the door behind him as carefully as he could. The riding hat swinging from his right hand was then crammed onto his head as he made his way down to the stables.

Buchwald was awake. He was standing up in his stall, pulling at the meagre hay ration he’d been given when Jean reached him, brandishing a halter and leadrope. “Bad night again, Waldy,” he sighed to the gelding, sliding the bolt back and stepping into the stall. Buchwald shuffled in his bedding, bobbing his head as he greeted his late night visitor. Jean chuckled as the large head lowered to butt him in the chest, nostrils flaring as he searched for treats, and he couldn’t help but scratch the young horse behind the ears. Buchwald snorted. “You doin’ okay, big guy?” he asked, trailing a hand through the almost black forelock. Buchwald only allowed so much fussing before he jerked his head away and looked intently across the yard at the stall directly opposite him. Jean followed his gaze, and sighed. Cyclone’s stall. The gelding wasn’t at the door.

“Worried about your mate, huh?” he mumbled, turning back to Buchwald. His horse and Cyclone were good friends; they often spent hours in each other’s company, grazing until their bellies burst in the paddocks. There was no real reason behind it, but Jean guessed the older horse had taken Buchwald under his wing and protected him from the fierce herd politics. Buchwald probably paid him back in groom sessions. But now the young horse was chuffing through his nose, ears pricked forwards as he stared. A whinny rumbled through his body, shaking his frame and giving him the softest look as he listened for his companion’s reply. Cyclone let out a low, guttural neigh in return a few seconds later, but it didn’t sound as energetic as it usually did. Jean bit his lip. He didn’t want to think about Cyclone. He had so much to worry about, and the grey gelding was definitely on the list, but hope was all he had to get him by for the moment. Maybe the vet had been called out while he was with Marlow; he guessed he wouldn’t know until the morning.

He shook himself. Had to rid himself of that thought. Had to stop. “C’mon Waldy, feel like a ride?” he asked, reaching up to fix the headcollar on over the gelding’s face. Buchwald snorted again, attention back on his owner as Jean swung the stable door out and latched it on the hook. He returned to the horse and clipped the leadrope on, grabbing a fistful of mane and mounting from the ground with a grunt of effort.

The sudden weight on his back made Buchwald skitter sideways, but the stable’s ceiling was high enough to save Jean’s head a whack. He calmed him with a few hushed words, placing a hand on the jumpy youngster’s neck to remind him that Jean was there, Jean had him. Buchwald stilled, one ear flicking back awaiting instruction. Jean nudged him with his heels, clutching hold of the leadrope like a half-rein, and they were moving forwards, Buchwald’s head arched and hooves clattering on the hard ground of the courtyard. Jean chanced a look back at the other occupants, but saw that Sina was snoozing in her stall, head lolling low to the ground as she slept. Jean couldn’t bear even trying to look into Cyclone’s stable. He instead turned Buchwald to face the paddocks, staring up at how the night sky glittered above them like shards of glass, and gave his horse another nudge to spring him into a trot.

There was no way he could run from anything. Everything that churned his brain and shattered his heart only grew scar tissue tougher and more knotted than before. He couldn’t run- but he could escape. Just for a little while. And with the sound of Buchwald’s breathing and the soft flick of his tail, Jean felt more at home than he ever did in the empty shell of a house he shared with his father.

_Fuck his father. Fuck Marlow. Fuck Cyclone and the stables and everyone._

Within moments, they were galloping.

* * *

He woke up when the sun rose. Buchwald was grazing a few feet away, leadrope still curled around his neck as he munched, and for a moment Jean wasn’t sure where he was. He shifted on the dew-damp grass and let out a groan as his eyelids were assaulted by the promise of the new day. He looked around the paddock, calculating how far he’d gotten _this time,_ and spotted a small cottage nestled in its corner. Then it clicked. “You brought me to Levi’s?” he asked Buchwald. The gelding didn’t turn around, far too busy eating. Levi’s house was still on Trost Academy’s grounds, but on its edge. That meant they had to have jumped at least three paddock fences. _Shit_. Buchwald didn’t usually get to those heights- Jean must have really pushed him.

He dragged a hand through his wet hair and staggered to his feet, wracked with shivers. He hoped it didn’t stew- getting a cold was something he couldn’t afford to have. He wandered over to Buchwald and dropped the leadrope from his neck, giving it a small tug to instruct his horse forwards. Buchwald obeyed with a grumpy snort, lifting his head from the grass and following in Jean’s footsteps.

He could go back to the house. He could slip inside, take off his muddied riding clothes and crawl between the covers next to Marlow like it never happened. He could pretend everything was alright. But the black feeling crept over him again, and Jean shuddered. Not yet. He turned towards the cottage and started walking.

He knew Levi’s house well by now. The cottage had been there decades before the other buildings, and still had that homey feeling that Jean lacked in his own house. It was like the entire place was always drenched in sunshine, and Jean felt warmer the closer he got to it. His pulse only quickened when he saw that there was someone in the little ringed garden tending to some flowers. The glint of silver peeking through the grass as the person moved themselves forwards made Jean relax. It was Petra. Thank god. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to cope with Levi so early in the morning.

He wanted to call out, but didn’t seem to have the lungs for it. Buchwald announced their presence, however, with a disgruntled snort. The woman’s eyes flew up, honeyed and alert, and when she saw who it was her mouth split into a bright smile. “Jean! What a lovely surprise!” she said, wheeling herself eagerly towards him. Levi constantly scolded her over going into the garden; he was convinced her wheelchair would get stuck in the mud if he wasn’t there to yank it out, but Petra never paid him a shred of attention.

“Hi Petra,” Jean said, feeling better already. “Sorry it’s early...”

“No, no, don’t you worry about that! It’s nice to see you, I should really come visit you more often,” she beamed, reaching over to snip off one of the rosebuds blooming in the weak sun. Her hair was growing longer, he noted, and was starting to tumble down her shoulders whenever she stretched too far. She was wearing a yellow sundress today, a colour that complimented her more than Jean would ever admit. “But I’ve been keeping busy.”

“I can see,” Jean said, glancing around the garden. It looked beautiful as always, with red and yellow roses blooming next to one another along the flower beds. He snatched for Buchwald’s lead rope before the horse could decide they looked particularly appetising. “You know Levi wouldn’t be happy with you doing your own pruning. He’d probably have a heart attack.”

Petra granted him a sly smile. “Ah, but he isn’t here, is he?”

Jean chuckled. “Guess not. Where is he?”

“Tending to the morning feeds, checking if Auruo’s doing it right.” She tutted. “He doesn’t trust him. Only been here two years, but apparently he still thinks the guy needs him breathing down his neck every five minutes.” She rolled her eyes with a playful grin. “Needs to work on that, bless his heart.”  She paused then, started to look him over, and Jean’s smile fell. _Eesh, here it came._ “What are you doing out here so early?”

Jean shuffled his feet in the soil. Buchwald butted him in the centre of his shoulders.

“I see.” Petra’s voice was softer, the kind of voice she used with the younger and flighty yearlings she minded. “Would you like to come in for some breakfast? Levi won’t be long.”

If Jean was honest, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to see Levi. All he needed was to walk into their cottage and be hit with the smells of warm cooking and freshly picked flowers and he would relax.  He was certain of it. He let Buchwald off in the paddock skirting the garden, smiling at the way the horse immediately dropped and rolled once his headcollar was off, and followed Petra into the little cottage, ducking his head to avoid the low doorway. Petra had been cooking; he could smell the eggs and toast from the doorway. “Make yourself at home, Jean,” she said in her same soft tones, wheeling herself towards the stove to check on whatever she had baking inside. Jean took a seat, sniggering at the mud tracks her chair made on the stone floor and thinking of how much Levi would pretend to be annoyed. There weren’t many places where he could feel totally at home, but Petra and Levi’s house was definitely on the list- especially when Petra was around. “Now,” she said, turning to place a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, “do you want to talk about it?”

He paused, staring down at the eggs. He wasn’t sure. He told Petra a lot of things, but Marlow being a jerk wasn’t one of them. His father also wasn’t on the list. He swallowed painfully. He guessed he could talk about the third thing. “I’m worried about Cyclone,” he said eventually, glancing up to check Petra’s expression. It was unreadable. “Do you know if the vet’s been asked to come out yet?”

“He’s coming this morning for an evaluation.” Petra’s voice was subdued, quiet. “Levi’s done the best he could with what he has, but he’s no vet. He can only do so much to ease Cyclone’s pain.”

“He’s in pain, then?”

Petra paused in pouring the tea. She made a face. “You know I don’t know much about the medical side of horses, Jean. I just know how they’re _meant_ to look, and when I went to see Cyclone last night, he…” She cringed, and Jean’s hopes dropped. “He wasn’t a happy horse, Jean. He looks done.”

“Done? He… he can’t be done, he’s still young, right?” Jean’s eyes followed Petra around the kitchen, watching the way her shoulders heaved with sighs.

“He’s over ten years old, Jean. He’s not old, but he’s certainly not young.” She offered him a cup of tea which he gratefully accepted, curling his cold fingers around the scalding warmth. “It may be Dietrich’s decision in the end.” _Dietrich. Bertholdt’s father._

“But he’s _Bertholdt’s_ horse, he can’t do that.”

“Bertholdt knows his father bought him Cyclone to see him compete. If he can’t compete, then…” Petra merely shrugged, passing him the sugar pot. “It’s not nice, but it’s how the horse world works.”

“If that’s how the horse world works, then I want no part in it,” Jean grumbled, sinking in his chair and bringing his cup to his lips with a grimace.

Petra watched him with a sympathetic smile. “Oh, you’re already here, sweetheart. Sometimes, people have to make hard decisions that aren’t always the right ones, but it’s how things go.”

Jean’s gaze flickered up to her. “You could have put down the horse that threw you, but you didn’t.”

Petra went silent. Jean flushed at his own nerve and looked down into his teacup. It was at that moment that Levi walked in, still impeccably clean despite having been feeding and bringing in the yearlings since the crack of dawn. He took one calculated glance at the addition to their table and raised a brow. Jean stared back, willing him not to throw him out, and Levi seemed to listen. Instead, he merely strode over to Petra and kissed her on the top of her head with as much tenderness as he could muster with a guest present and mumbled, “you’ve been gardening again.”

Petra grinned. “Oh, how _did_ you guess?”

“You smell of dirt.”

“Charming. There’s a pot of tea.”

“Thanks.”

Their conversations were always so blunt and straightforward, Jean marvelled as Levi stepped aside to reach the teapot, but they talked in touches far more often than words. Levi would brush a hand across her shoulder, hold her hand for a whisper of time as he reached for a teacup, and Petra would bump his side with her head in a tender sort of playfulness Jean hadn’t seen in any other couple he knew. He wondered if their relationship was made out of pure luck, or whether relationships could actually be like that if the right partner came along. He didn’t notice he was staring until Levi addressed him. “Your father’s looking for you, you know. Came down earlier asking if I’d seen you.”

Jean jolted, narrowly avoiding a tea spillage, before answering, “He can shove his worry up his ass.”

Levi’s brow rose in interest. “Another spat, huh? When are these gonna stop?”

Jean huffed. “When he stops being a child and I stop being a burden, apparently.”

Levi grunted. “Don’t feel sorry for yourself, doesn’t suit you.” He sat down next to Petra, returning her smile with an uptilt of his lips. “You need to stop falling asleep in fields. You’ll catch a cold.”

_Least of my worries_ , Jean thought with a sigh. But he had more important things to ask about. “Do you know what’s wrong with Cyclone?” he asked.

Levi paused before he answered. When he did, he sounded older. Tired. “He’s broken a sesamoid bone in his foreleg. The other feels like it’s on its way out too. Too soon to tell whether he’s ripped any ligaments yet, but he’s not putting any weight on it. If he lies down, he probably won’t get back up again.”

Jean looked back to his food. He felt sick. The thought that such a brief moment, such a split in time, could cost so much was dizzying. “D-does Bertholdt know?” he asked.

“He knows parts.” Levi took a sip of his tea. “I told him about the sesamoids, but Jacques doesn’t want him knowing much. It’s his father’s call, at the end of the day. If it’s too expensive or too dangerous to operate, then there’s nothing he can do.”

Jean went numb. _There’s nothing he can do._ Cyclone was having his fate debated over with people who didn’t know him. It should be Bertholdt’s decision as to whether or not he wanted to go ahead with surgery, not his father’s who barely knew the gelding. To him, Cyclone was nothing but a machine to be pitted against fence after fence for ribbons and gold cups- nothing more, nothing less. Bertholdt’s father had Cyclone’s life in the palm of his hand, and had the power to snuff it out if he deemed it necessary. Jean imagined being in Bertholdt’s position, and the horse being Buchwald or Sina. He felt sicker than ever. “W-will the vet give an opinion?” he asked. His voice sounded faint.

Levi nodded. “He’s coming to see him today. We’ve got lessons. I’m letting Bertholdt take one of the school horses, thought we could go for a hack more than a training session today.” He took another sip. “Sound good?”

Jean gave a small nod and continued eating with a heavy heart. Levi was trying, no matter how hard it was. “Sure,” he said between mouthfuls, “that sounds good.”

He had to admit, the hack did take his mind off things. Levi knew every path and track the area yielded, and took them all on a lazy ride around the edge of the academy and dying farmland as a change. Sina was bouncy, pulling on the reins and trying to go faster, but Jean held her steady. He’d let Bertholdt ride Buchwald and despite his protectiveness over his old horse, he had to admit that Bertholdt handled him well. They were both leggy and nervous, he noted with a small smile, and even though Bertholdt’s mind was elsewhere Buchwald didn’t take advantage. In fact, the horse kept pace with Reiner and Gladiator without trying, head bobbing in his eagerness to match the giant stride for stride. Jean was riding next to Levi, keeping his distance from Sawney’s grumpy snaps and flattened ears, and tried not to look at the trainer in case it dredged up thoughts about Cyclone; instead he gazed out at the rolling hills and greenery not often seen this side of Trost, and tried to imagine what Jinae would look like under the same sun.

Levi gave them time to gallop when he was sure there were no other people around, and once the group launched into a furious pace, the air was snatched from Jean’s lungs. The collective sound of drumming hooves and gentle snorts from the horses as they pushed themselves faster, faster, made Jean’s mind drift back to the times where a group of galloping horses and riders was the scariest thing for any army to see. He crouched closer to Sina’s neck and let the childish notions take him over, imagining for a moment that he was charging down an enemy, Sina’s laboured breath drawing him further into his own thoughts until Levi barked the order to slow down. They dropped down to a canter, Sina shaking her head and blowing through her nose crossly at the demand for a slower pace. As they slowed, reality began to slot back into place like a lost puzzle piece. Jean remembered what they were going back to.

Levi turned them back and took the path home at a plodding walk, Sawney’s pace lazy and relaxed. Jean and Levi didn’t talk very often; it just wasn’t something they did. But, as they reached the bend that instructed them to head down into the yard, Levi spoke up. “I’m not a father, Kirschtein. I never will be. Don’t have the heart for it. But you cannot go on the way you are, shit’s unhealthy.”

Jean bit his lip. “I know,” he said, lowering his gaze to the crest of Sina’s neck. “It’s only a temporary solution. I get that.”

“You either have to play the game, or get out when you can. For now, I suggest you play the game.” Levi looked towards the stables and let out a gruff sigh. “Wouldn’t usually say that, but you’re on borrowed time anyway. You’re heading off to university this September. It’s only the summer. Isn’t even that, seeing as you’re working at that Bodt stables.”

“Do you think I made the right choice?” Jean asked. He couldn’t help it.

Levi turned his head towards him, cold eyes flashing. “Like I said, Kirschtein. I’m not a father. I’m not _your_ father. I can’t ever be your father, no matter how much you want it. I’m your trainer. That’s it.” He looked back to the path ahead. “As your trainer, I’d say you’re taking a big risk, but a good opportunity. As a _friend_ , I would say that yes, you’re doing the right thing.”

Jean smiled, and encouraged Sina down a slightly steeper incline with a click of his tongue. “It’s just nice hearing it from someone that matters, I guess.”

Levi snorted. “Don’t be a kiss-ass, Kirschtein. I’m replaceable, your father is well aware of that. Everyone is, in this business.” But there was a smile, however small, on his face as he led them all into the courtyard of the stables, Sawney grumbling out a whicker at the promise of home and haynets.

Jean’s good mood, however, vanished once he saw what was awaiting them.

The unmistakeable white veterinary van was parked up in the centre of the courtyard, various pieces of kit spread out in front of Cyclone’s stable. The mere sight of it made Jean’s stomach constrict. “Steady,” Levi instructed, slowing the pace down further. Jean thought he was talking to the horses until he felt the trainer’s gaze on him. “You’re tensing up, making your mare nervous. Calm it down. Loosen the reins, take a breath. There’s nothing that can change the vet’s decision, so don’t fret over it.”

Jean swallowed his misgivings down deep and stopped Sina, rewarding her with an absent-minded pat before dismounting with a spring.

“Th-they didn’t tell me the vet was coming n-now,” Bertholdt whimpered. “Why didn’t they tell me? I wanted to be there.”

Jean gritted his teeth and ran Sina’s stirrups up. This was Bertholdt’s pain to bear, not his. He had no right to behave the way he wanted to. He had to pull himself together. He ended up gruffly taking Buchwald’s reins from Bertholdt’s shaky grasp and muttering that he’d put the gelding away for him, leading the pair of horses away before the stumbling words of gratitude could invade his head and sink in too deep.

He didn’t stay for long at the yard. He untacked the two horses, made sure the stable beds were clean, and left. He didn’t want to stay. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to be close enough to hear the vet’s diagnosis. He didn’t want to witness Bertholdt falling to pieces. Levi had a strong idea of what was going on, and it didn’t sound like it would be good news. So he walked back to his house, trying to ignore the heaviness that sunk deep in his chest.

There was no one for him to talk to once he did get back to his room; Marlow had left that morning, most likely, once he had found no Jean asleep next to him. His final round wasn’t going to happen- there was no reason for him to stay. Jean often wondered if Marlow’s mind really did work that way, but all it gave him was a headache. He ended up digging out one of his course books from under his bed and let it flop open to the most recent dog-eared page. He started reading the exploits of King Lear’s downfall in an attempt to block out the thoughts of bad news and pained horses, but even then his mind wandered.

He kept it up for the remainder of the day. But then, in the evening, when he thought he was safe, Reiner phoned. He accepted the call with a sinking heart. He knew he couldn’t ignore it forever. But he would have talked to anyone but _Reiner._ “Why weren’t you there with us?” his friend demanded, the moment the call was picked up.

Jean sighed. “I had stuff to do,” he said, cringing at how bad the excuse sounded.

“That’s not good enough.” Reiner was angry, Jean realised with a wince. “You can’t just get cold feet over something like this.”

“He had you there,” Jean tried weakly.

“He needed his _friends,_ too. Jesus Jean, even _Annie_ stuck around. _Annie._ ”

Jean bit his lip and gazed up at the ceiling. Guilt was a feeling he knew well, but as it curled around his gut and squeezed like a boa constrictor he wished he wasn’t so accustomed to it. “I wouldn’t have been any use, Reiner,” he said eventually. “You know I wouldn’t have. I can’t comfort to save my life.”

Reiner huffed down the phone. “Don’t be so selfish, for God’s sake. You know you would have helped. Bert trusts you. He thinks the world of you. He needed you today, and you legged it because of what, your own poor-little-rich-boy act?” He snorted. “Just push your own fucked up insecurities to one side for a second and think about someone else, for a change.”

Jean felt his temper spark again. Maybe it hadn’t fully vanished from his argument with his father; maybe it had just been lying in wait for another opportunity. “Oh, I’m _sorry_ , is that all I have to do? Just push it to one side, huh? _Wow,_ Reiner, thanks for that gem of advice. I feel fucking better already,” he sneered into the speaker.

“Don’t be a dick, Jean,” Reiner replied. “I know you care.”

“Got a funny fucking way of showing it.”

There was a brief silence. For a horrifying minute, Jean thought Reiner had hung up on him. But then he heard a slow exhale of breath. “Look, I get that you’re going through… something. And you won’t let me help. But Bertholdt’s going through something too, and he’s your friend. You gotta be there for him, okay? Even if it hurts you. It’s no walk in the park for me, either.”

Jean bit his lip. Reiner was hurting too. He played the stoic, untouchable role well, but he was just as sensitive as the rest of them. Besides, he’d be the one holding onto Bertholdt and trying to stop him from sobbing his heart out. “I know,” he said, “I know, I’m sorry. It’s been a messed up couple of days.” He paused. “Forgive me?”

“Perhaps. Do you know about the vet’s diagnosis?”

Jean wetted his lips. Here it came. “N-no. What is it?”

Reiner went quiet. Jean’s stomach dropped. _Oh no._ “Cyclone broke both sesamoids and ripped pretty much everything from his shin down,” Reiner said gravely. “Apparently it’s common in thoroughbreds, especially those bred for racing like he was. Something to do with soft-boned genetics. Ever heard of Ruffian?”

Jean gulped. “Y-yeah, she broke down on the track…” He also knew what happened to the filly afterwards. He felt sick.

“Cyclone did the same.” Reiner let out a sigh. “Not as bad as her, though. He wasn’t in full gallop, for starters, so the bones weren’t pulverised. And he’s older, so they’re not as soft as hers were. Still a nasty break.”

“What’s the vet gonna do?”

Jean could almost see Reiner shrug. “He’s pinned the bones for now, put the leg in a cast and set it as best he can. He’s gonna check back in a few days to see if Cyclone starts trying to put weight on it. If the bones shift, though…” Reiner’s voice trailed off. “They may have to operate. And Bertholdt’s dad’s already said he isn’t willing to pay for that.”

Jean went cold. “What do you mean, he’s not _willing_? It’s a horse, not a fucking motorbike! Cyclone’s alive, he’s breathing, he has to do _something_!”

“I know,” Reiner said. His voice sounded faint. Was he _sniffling?_ “But he won’t, Jean, he won’t. Levi tried to talk to him and he just sneered him away. He doesn’t wanna know.”

Jean slumped back on his bed, the information whirling around his brain. Cyclone had days. He didn’t have years, or months, or weeks. He had _days_ to improve. “H-he’ll improve, though… won’t he?” he asked, his lips dry again.

“We have to wait and see. Even if he does, it’ll mean box rest. No riding for at least six months. Can’t imagine he’ll be too impressed at that.”

They spoke for another half hour after that, Reiner telling him that Bertholdt didn’t know the ins and outs of the diagnosis and he _wasn’t_ to know. “I’ve been sworn to secrecy, the whole thing’s fucked up, but I can’t go against his dad. If I do, he won’t let me in his house again,” Reiner said wretchedly. Jean had to promise, with a sickening squeeze of his voicebox, that he wouldn’t tell Bertholdt. Jean hated secrets. But, as he hung up and curled himself into a tight ball, he realised that sometimes secrets were the best things to keep. They had to just hold onto them and hope that Cyclone would pull through.

* * *

Cyclone didn’t improve.

Three days passed, and the gelding was still refusing to put weight on his injured foreleg. He’d gone off his food, the shine in his eyes was gone, and he stopped returning Buchwald’s neighs altogether. Jean made sure to take charge of the grey’s feed, stepping into the stable and trying to convince the gelding to at least shift a bit of weight onto the bandaged foreleg. But every time he placed the hoof gently on the ground, Cyclone let out a grunt of pain and lifted it free. Jean’s heart couldn’t have plummeted lower. “C-C’mon, boy, you gotta give the vet something, come on,” he begged, but the grey seemed to have had enough. He didn’t have any fight left in him.

He was sat eating dinner with his father in subdued silence when he decided, timidly, to approach the subject. “Can’t you do something?” he murmured, spearing a potato with his fork.

His father stopped eating. It was the first time since their argument that Jean had voluntarily started a conversation. Jean didn’t blame the surprise in his father’s eyes as he set down his cutlery. “Do something?” Jacques repeated. “About what?”

“Cyclone.” Jean kept his gaze on his foot, prodding it around the plate to mop up some of the sauce from his chicken. “I heard what the vet said. Reiner told me.”

Jacques paused. “Ah.” He picked up his fork. “Is there no improvement?”

Jean didn’t want to tell him. He didn’t. But he knew he had to, for the good of the conversation. “No,” he answered, eyes still on his potatoes. “He won’t even try.”

Jacques sighed. “Jean, you know there’s nothing I can do.”

“Yes there is.” Jean’s eyes flashed up. He felt that anger flare again in the pit of his stomach. “You could buy Cyclone off Bertholdt’s father. You could pay for the surgery. You could help him.”

“And why should I do that?” Jacques blinked lazily at him. “He’s got a broken leg, Jean. He won’t heal for quite some time. Time I can’t afford to lose on a broken animal.”

“You can’t just let them throw his life away just because it’ll take too long to fix!” Jean snapped, dropping his fork onto the plate with a clatter.

Jacques flinched, but didn’t let his gaze waver. “I will not talk to you about this when you’re so fired up, Jean,” he said, ever the cold one in the room. “You do not understand the finer points of business because you’re young. You’ll understand one day.”

“Don’t patronise me,” Jean hissed. “Why the hell do you think I’d want to get involved in business if shit like this happens and you don’t bat an eyelid?”

“Now, Jean-” His father began, rising up out of his seat, but Jean cut him off.

“No! I wouldn’t _ever_ let a horse die just because I can’t be bothered to wait around for it to get better! I wouldn’t _ever_ get rid of a horse, or sell one on or take it away from my son just because it won’t win medals!”

“If you are talking about that waste of space gelding I made you give up-”

“His NAME is BUCHWALD.”

“I DON’T CARE WHAT HIS NAME IS!” Jacques exploded, his sudden fire making Jean shrink back in his seat. “This academy is for competition animals! It is for the elite and the wealthy to bask in the glow of equine perfection, and I will **_not_** have our reputation tarnished by a host of broken down nags and useless four year olds!” He brought his fist down so hard onto the table the plates rattled.

Jean stood up too, eyes narrowing as the anger pulsed nastily in his stomach. “Well why do you keep me around the fucking house for, then?”

“Don’t behave like such a child! For goodness sake, you’re a teenager now, practically a grown man.” Jacques was glaring him down now, lips curled in the characteristic snarl of his.

“If wanting to keep a perfectly fine horse alive is childish, then I don’t want to grow up!” Jean snapped.

“Cyclone is not a perfectly fine horse!” Jacques retorted. “He was mediocre at best when he _was_ healthy, and now he’s not Dietrich has the perfect excuse to get Bertholdt a horse that’s actually worth the grain it consumes!”

“Oh, so this worked out perfectly for the both of you, then!” Jean threw his hands up in the air. “It couldn’t have come at a better time! Bertholdt gets a shiny new horse and Cyclone gets forgotten, do you really think that’s gonna happen?!”

“What Dietrich does is none of my business!”

“It IS your business!” Jean yelled back, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You are standing back and doing nothing! It’s your academy, your stables, your **_rules_**!”

“Don’t be so naïve, boy!” Jacques drew nearer, his strides short and snappy. “Do you really think I _like_ the idea of having to put a horse down in my grounds? Do you think I have _any power_ over this?” He shook his head, letting out a scoff as he turned his back on him. “You really are dense.”

Jean tried to back off. It was a natural break, a perfect time for him to rush upstairs and lick his wounds whilst his father sat and festered in his own anger. But he didn’t do it. He stood his ground. “If I ever grow up to be like you, sitting back and letting shit like this happen like a coward, I’ll be fucking disgusted,” he seethed.

He didn’t see it coming. Jacques’s hand flew too fast, he whirled too tight, and the sting of a slap exploded on Jean’s cheek. His head wrenched to the right, and he left it there, staring blankly down at the floor.

His father had hit him. _He’d **hit** him. _He’d never hit him before.

“Don’t you _ever_ say that to me again,” he heard Jacques hiss. “I do everything I do for _you_ , you ungrateful swine.”

Jean raised a hand to his cheek and felt how tender and pink the skin was. Everything stung. His anger had been frightened away into a corner. The strongman in his head had lost his muscle. He couldn’t even speak.

“Anything else to say, Mr. Know It All?”

Jean was silent.

“Thought not.” Jacques walked away, back to his seat, and resumed his dinner. “If you’re still going to act like a brat, I suggest you get out of my sight.”

Jean did just that. He bolted. His father didn’t even react as he flew from the room. Jean didn’t care. He wouldn’t have let him run after him. He didn’t even take his phone, shouldering the doors open and sprinting out into the cloak of night, breath escaping in sharp puffs. He headed down to the stables, almost falling over in his desperation, and didn’t stop until he was leaning into the nearest stable door and trying to fight back tears.

His father wouldn’t listen. He never would. To him, Jean was a nuisance, an extra bit of baggage from a marriage that fell apart and a business venture that wasn’t grateful enough. He dug his nails into the polished bars, his body shaking silently with the sobs that wanted to break through. Nothing was fair. Everything was based around money and how to keep hold of it, and Jean couldn’t do it. He could feel parts of him splitting off, vanishing into the ether of the night as he rested his head against the bars just to feel the biting cold of the steel beneath the paint.

“Kid.”

He spun around in an instant, scrubbing at his face violently with a sleeve. “S-sir,” he mumbled.

“Levi,” he was corrected as the trainer stepped into the overhead lights. “What the hell are you doing here, the feeds were done ages ag-” He paused. Jean wasn’t sure whether he saw the tear tracks on his face or the pink mark of a slap, but he didn’t ask. He just blinked at him, slow and steady. “You heard, huh?”

Jean nodded, trying not to sniffle pathetically. “I… I heard, y-yeah.”

Levi gave a short huff. “You know, I tried to convince your father too. And Dietrich. Talking to men like that is like talking to a piece of shit wall.” He tilted his head to the side, watching Jean intently. “You alright?”

Jean wanted to be brave, but he was far too gone for that. He shook his head. “N-not really.”

Levi took a step towards him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Petra’s cooking. You need fattening up, skinny-ass.”

It wasn’t the best comforting attempt in the world, but Jean took what he could get. He let Levi lead him back to his house, trying to forget about the grey head that wouldn’t be looking out of his stable door for long.

* * *

According to Reiner later on, the bones had shifted.

There had been no hope to hold onto in the first place.

Jean wasn’t there when they put Cyclone down. He refused to get involved, making a point of avoiding his father during the proceedings. Even when he returned from Levi and Petra’s to grab some clean clothes and a shower, he took the stairs two at a time and skidded into the bathroom to make sure he’d have the minimal amount of time to get cornered. He knew what he was going to do. He wriggled into his jodhpurs and grabbed a jacket before storming down to the yard and dragging out a sleepy Sina from her stall. The veterinary van pulled up as he was tacking her up, and Jean overheard a hushed conversation between the vet and a dark eyed, sharp suited man he recognised as Dietrich Hoover. “…need to get him to a paddock…” “…don’t want to unnerve the other horses…” “…best course of action…” Jean gritted his teeth and tightened the buckles of Sina’s girth.

Bertholdt wasn’t there. Reiner had texted him to say that Bertholdt wasn’t to know anything- if he asked, Cyclone had been sold off to a humane association.

Jean felt sick.

He mounted the moment the vet entered Cyclone’s stable, and drove his heels into her sides a little too viciously. She sprang away with a surprised snort, leaving the courtyard at a canter with Jean gripping her with his knees to stop himself from looking back.

They would lead Cyclone out to one of the closer paddocks to do it- the more room they had, the better. Jean had read up on it the night before, and learnt that the most common form of euthanasia was a shot to the head.

He grimaced and pushed Sina onwards, past the first section of paddock and up the incline Levi had taken them, clicking his tongue for encouragement when she hesitated. Once they were up and clear of the fences and voices, Jean let the mare drop down to a walk, snorting and puffing with exertion. He let her get her breath back and settled himself deeper into her saddle. He glanced up at the cloudless sky and noticed a buzzard flying directly above them. He watched it glide over the expanse of wild grass, patrolling its territory with the kind of steadiness Jean envied. It dipped and dived now and again, always pulling up at the last minute and shooting back up into the sky, and slowly but surely Jean could feel himself relaxing. Once Sina began to shift under him, he coaxed her into a slow trot, rising easily to her stride as he turned her in a large circle.

In his mind, he was teaching her more control, but soon he was cantering her in tighter and tighter circles, huffing as Sina flicked her tail and let out a disgruntled snort at the treatment. “You wanna stop this shit, girl?” he asked, dropping her back to a trot and letting her break the circle to move forwards. “Wanna gallop, huh?”

As if she was answering him, Sina let out a small whinny. Jean nodded curtly. “Thought so.”

He got down to a more level patch of ground and let the mare have her head, letting out a whoop as she took off with the power of a jet launcher firing from her hooves. He curled into her neck as they galloped, rising slightly out of the saddle to give her less weight as they charged along the stretch of ground like it was a racetrack. Sina’s ears were pricked forward, her strides long and pumping as they moved, and Jean let out a gleeful whoop again as she swerved around the corner of the field, head rising and falling like the crest of a red wave. They took the entire field in a circuit, the mare’s pace furious and rolling, and only when they reached their starting point did Jean start pulling her up. Sina tossed her head and snorted in annoyance, but Jean kept it up until she dropped back to a canter.

Then a gun went off.

Sina shied to the right, ears flying back at the noise, and Jean hushed her in as steady a voice as he could muster. He glanced back to the stables- and saw a small grey smudge in one of the fields.

His heart dropped.

“E-easy Sina, easy,” he murmured, stroking the mare’s neck to stop the shakes rolling through her body. “It’s alright girl, steady it down.” He finally managed to drop her back to a standstill, talking to her the entire time through his pats that were clumsy with nerves.

Still, he couldn’t keep the grey smudge out of his mind. It stayed there, firmly lodged in his brain even after he’d returned to the yard and seen the grave faces of the stable hands. It stayed when he heard Buchwald call out for his fieldmate, and get no reply. It even stayed as he wrapped himself in his blankets and tried to muffle the cries that coursed through his body.

They only vanished when his father came to his room and threw the house phone onto his bed. “Mrs. Bodt wants to talk to you. Something about staying in a room, and whether you want to bring Sina with you,” he said, curt and to the point, but the moment he shut the door Jean scrambled to the phone and clutched it to his ear.

“H-Hello?” he breathed.

The voice on the other end was ecstatic. “Jean! How are you doing? Oh your father sounds grumpy, I hope he’s treating you well and not being a shit as always. I heard about the horse, I’m sorry sweetheart, but these things have to happen sometimes, it was probably for the best. That little gremlin you have as a trainer wouldn’t let any harm come to a horse unless he was certain they needed it I’m sure. Oh, listen to me, rambling on, got a mouth like a foghorn Marco always says…”

For the first time that week, Jean cracked a smile.

And, not for the first time, Jean thought that working at the Bodt stables really was the best decision he could make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. But Eleanor makes it better. Always. <3 thanks for reading!


	6. The Distant Shore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whew, hello again guys! So work's been kicking my butt, but here's another Hackamore chapter! Jean talks for England I swear to god the boy has a blabbermouth that doesn't wanna stop blabbin ;_;
> 
> In this chapter we see Jean making some changes, the power of silence and Eleanor Bodt being the mummiest mum that ever mummed. She's adorable. Also, obviously, Marco appears back on the scene and Jean realises that he might not just be low key crushing on this guy. Maybe there's something deeper going on...
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this update! My tumblr: attackonmyponderland.tumblr.com
> 
> **Again, warning on the whole relationship front with Jean and Marlow, it's explored again in this chapter (but only very briefly)**

Silence became something of a constant in the remainder of Jean’s time at home.

He learnt that it intruded far louder than any noise, sowed more seeds of doubt and left his stomach a squirming mass of centipedes. It was also impossible to shake once it had a hold.

The first silence was Buchwald. At first, he didn’t stop. He called for Cyclone, and called _loud._ Jean stayed with him for as long as he was able during those days, though it broke his heart every time Buchwald lifted his head to neigh for his companion. He whispered countless times that he was gone, that no one was going to reply, but Buchwald persisted in the way animals did. It was like instinct was, for once, being overridden by the gelding’s desire for it not to be true. Horses were like humans in that respect; they avoided grief like they knew it was going to bite them.

He stopped calling for Cyclone the third day after the gelding was put down. Jean wasn’t sure what happened on that particular day to silence him, but one moment Buchwald was neighing louder than ever, and the next he just… stopped. Like he’d been hit with the realisation that the gunshot and Cyclone’s absence were connected.

From that moment on, he hadn’t made a sound.

Jean was used to hearing the gelding whinny a greeting when he came down to the yard every morning, but now he was greeted with nothing. He overheard Levi mention in a heated discussion with his father that his horse really was grieving, and they should have shown him the body so he could have adjusted to life without his friend. The mere thought made Jean sick. “You could have traumatised that horse! I hope it was worth it,” he heard Levi snap that morning, and that was when another kind of silence filtered into his life.

His father’s.

Jacques spoke to no one, least of all Jean, and kept himself locked in his study for the majority of the day. Jean wasn’t sure whether the finances were taking a bashing, or his father was just sat in there stewing. It could have been both. Jean knew guilt in his father when he saw it. Jacques couldn’t even look Jean in the eye over dinner, getting up halfway through and taking the lukewarm plate to the familiar void of the study. Jean didn’t even look up at those times. He just kept eating. He didn’t care how much guilt was contained in his father’s system: it was not going to change what he’d done. He couldn’t take the bullet out of Cyclone, or drag his hurtful words back into his mouth. _He’d made his bed_ , Jean thought as he shovelled another mouthful of mashed potato into his mouth, _now he had to lie in it._

The only saving grace was a few nights before he was due to move into the Bodt Stables, when a Skype message popped up on his laptop.

**_BASTARDIEN [19:02]:_ ** _Hey lil bro how’s dad o saurus?_

Jean grinned. _Bastien._ Being the younger sibling had its benefits, but the problems usually included being patronised and coddled. His siblings all had good jobs now, jobs that meant they were away from Trost and off on their own. Alex was thirty four and an esteemed member of management at some famous Irish racetrack Jean always forgot the name of to annoy him. Cerise was in Marketing, and everyone knew about it. Bastien was a lawyer. Alex treated Jean like a yapping dog under his feet, whilst Cerise didn’t have the time of day for him. Bastien took every opportunity to look out for him. Alex and Cerise looked like their mother, with blonde hair that curled at the edges (short for Cerise, longer for Alex), whilst Bastien was every inch Jacques’ son like Jean. One thing was similar about them all, however: once they left the house, they hadn’t looked back. Not once.  Bastien tried, and Jean was thankful, but there was no way in hell he would step foot in the house again save for a handful of Christmases and Jean’s birthday (if he could get the time off). He didn’t blame them. If he could get out, he would stay out too.

Bastien was different to the others. He _got_ Jean. He understood how he felt, what he wanted to do, and loved the horses besides. He had been the first person Jean came out to, and continued to be his pinnacle of trust. _Ironic really,_ Jean thought, _seeing as he’s a blood sucking lawyer._

He accepted the skype call a moment later. When the tired looking face of his older brother appeared on the screen, he couldn’t bite back the relieved laugh he gave at seeing him. “You look like shit,” he remarked.

“Thank you.” Bastien ran a hand through his bedraggled hair and gave the best sultry wink he could manage. “I’m _stunning_.”

“Oh my _god_ shut up.”

Bastien’s laughter made Jean’s stomach lighten. “You look like you need some laughter in your life, kid. What’s up?”

Jean’s accompanying laugh wasn’t quite so carefree. “What’s not up?”

Bastien’s face dropped. “ _Mon dieu_ , what’s he done?” he asked.

“Being a prick, as usual,” Jean sighed, adjusting the screen so his brother’s face wasn’t in quite so much negative.

“Well, that could be either one.”

Jean blinked. “Either one-?”

Bastien raised an eyebrow, putting on his best unimpressed face. Jean wondered if he used that sort of expression in the courtroom. “You heard. Either one. Dad, or that oh so charming… thing of yours. Marmalow or whatever.”

“Marlow.”

“Whatever.” Jean rolled his eyes, and Bastien let out a huff. "I’m serious! If he’s been upsetting my Jeanbo you know I'll hop on the next flight home-"

"You'll lose your job," Jean yawned.

"Yeah well you'd lose a pain in the ass and it would be worth it." Bastien scooted closer to the screen, the blue eyes he fixed on Jean the only remnants of their mother's genes. "C'mon Jean. You're a good kid. A nice kid. You could be shooting for so much better than that piece of work."

Jean rolled his eyes. "Bastien, come on." This was the only thing they disagreed with. Bastien hadn't ever met Marlow; he'd heard all about him from Jean, of course, and at first he'd been cautiously optimistic about the new addition to Jean's life. Soon, the lip curls and narrowed brows spoke volumes for his true feelings. What was worse was that Bastien would not let it go. Jean had stopped mentioning Marlow. It was better off that way, even if he got a raised brow and a look of distrust. Bastien could read people well- it was something they both knew- and the fact that his hackles were rising at Marlow's existence made Jean nervous. Still, he knew what he was doing. He was okay. He was fine. He was in control.

Bastien, thankfully, let it drop. He huffed again, sounding like a bad tempered horse, and raked a hand through his mane of hair, but he said nothing. "So, if it wasn’t Marlow, must’ve been our dearest father that got you down in the dumps,” he said.

Jean snorted. "You can say that again."

"Ohhh dear. Go on, baby brother. Tell me everything."

So he did. He let the words trickle out of his mouth like drips from a tap at first, stumbling and unsure what Bastien would make of them, but soon they were roaring out like waterfalls. He told him about being pushed out of school a few weeks early, about Sina and the showgrounds and Cyclone. And Bastien listened. He sat there, nodding like the professional he was, and let Jean talk. He didn't interrupt once. Jean was grateful for that. When he was done, his brother let out a low whistle. "Shit. Sounds like it's been pretty bad lately. I’m sorry."

Jean rubbed the side of his nose and shrugged. "I dunno, I can cope..."

"Just because you can doesn't mean you should." Bastien's tone was soft now, slipping into the concerned older brother territory Jean was used to. "Jean, you do not deserve to be treated like that. If it's any consolation, I think you're right. That horse could have probably made someone a great companion or lead horse. But that's the way of the business. If a horse can't compete, they're as good as gone. Alex can tell you that."

Jean bit his lip. "I know," he said. "But it's just... it's shitty, you know? Cyclone might have been okay, if they'd given him enough time..."

Bastien sighed. "If Levi said it was bad, Jean, it was probably never going to change. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you that, but it's true. If anyone knows horses, it’s Levi."

Jean knew. He knew, he knew, he knew. Knowing, however, didn't numb the pain. He ran a hand through his own hair and huffed. "Still. I won't be here much longer."

"Yeeeeahhhh." Jean didn't like the tone of voice Bastien had adopted. "You're going to work at that other stables, right? The one owned by the cute guy's mum?"

Jean's eyes bulged. "I didn't say he was cute!"

"Didn't have to. Your eyes said it all." Bastien's grin was maddening. "You've definitely got a crush again."

"I HAVE NOT."

"Have too, HorseBrain." He propped his head up with a hand as he added, "You said he has freckles. You gonna count them every time you see them? Wonder how many there are on...other parts of him?"

"If you don't shut up now I am ending this call."

"But I love you, Jeanbobo."

"Don't care. I'll end it."

Bastien harassed him for a little longer about Marco, but eventually gave in and started talking about more trivial things- a case he was in the middle of closing that Jean wasn't meant to be aware of, his secretary coming onto him ("I think she was flirting but I was distracted by some pigeons fighting outside my window"), and the secret stash of tea he'd pilfered from the head prosecutor's office ("it was sitting there, Jean. SITTING THERE"). All the while Jean just laughed and smiled and called him an idiot, and felt something inside him settle. Talking to Bastien was like being home- he made stupid jokes, made jibes about his job and false friends and everyone he came into contact with, and it made the sad, empty throb in the pit of Jean’s stomach vanish. The time he spent with Bastien was always fleeting, but worth it. There was never any doubt that his brother cared, and that was what mattered to Jean.

* * *

The day he left for the Bodt stables was overcast and dreary. Marlow had stayed over the night before, to the chagrin of his father, but Jacques didn’t dare voice his displeasure. The office door stayed shut, and Jean preferred it that way. Marlow didn’t talk, as he usually didn’t, and Jean was okay with that too. Silence was a familiar creature now. He’d learnt to embrace it. He didn’t talk either, just let himself be used and moulded like molten metal, his thoughts very obviously elsewhere.

He was woken the morning of his departure by a flash of pain, and when he jolted upright and looked over his shoulder, he saw Marlow. His eyes met the glinting olive ones, and he gawped. “What are you _doing_?”

Marlow smirked from his place at the foot of the bed. His chin was resting at the very top of Jean’s thigh, his hair crafted into something resembling a haystack, and those eyes were burning through the strands like fire. As Jean watched, Marlow trailed his tongue along the stinging skin, before biting down with a flash of white, canine teeth. Jean let out a yelp and tried to kick him off, but a hand appeared out of nowhere to pin him down, keep him in place. For the first time, Jean had a sharp, jagged flash of panic. He could feel it flooding his system, churning his blood to adrenaline and ice, and all he could do was freeze.

 _Idiot,_ he told himself, _why don’t you move? Kick him, hit him, shout, **anything**?_

The pain didn’t last long. Marlow sucked harshly against the flesh, drawing out a large purple bruise at the top of Jean’s thigh with a proud hum before pulling off with a chuckle. “There,” he said, like he had just finished some great masterpiece. “Now you’re marked.”

Jean felt sick.

This time, he had the strength to kick Marlow away. The ice in his veins was cracking. “That’s not fucking funny, Marlow!” he snapped. “What the hell are you-”

“You’re marked,” Marlow stated calmly, “so everyone knows you’re mine.”

Jean landed a well-timed kick against Marlow’s jaw, his heel blossoming in pain at the force he exerted on it. “Where the _hell_ do you think I’m going? I’m going to a stables, Marlow, not a fucking brothel!”

“Still,” Marlow shrugged, rubbing his jaw whilst Jean glared him down. “Don’t you think it’s sexy, having my mark on you?”

Jean was lost for words. Marlow wasn’t listening to him. Couldn’t he gauge the anger in Jean’s voice, the tension in his body language? “Are you broken?” he blurted out. Marlow blinked at him. Jean got up, ripping the sheets free and standing at the side of his bed, swaddled in them. “ _No,_ Marlow. I don’t find it sexy. I don’t like you biting me.”

“Oh don’t be such a drama queen,” Marlow replied. “You had no problem with it last time.” He had that lidded, bored look on his ace again, the kind that drove Jean to distraction. He loathed that look on Marlow. When all Jean gave him was stony silence, the boredom cracked. “What are you acting like such a pissy bitch for, huh? Am I not good enough for you? Do you want to break up?” he demanded. “Is that it?”

The ultimatum slammed square into Jean’s chest. He felt the breath rush out of him like he’d been winded. B-Break up? Marlow could be a dick, sure, but being alone sounded ten times worse. He spluttered out a weak ‘no’ and wrapped the sheets around him tighter to save his hands from shaking. He felt hollow.

“You don’t want to break up?” Marlow pressed.

Jean shook his head. “N-no, I’m just-”

“Well then, suck it the fuck up. Relationships are a two way street, Jean. You have to learn to compromise, it won’t kill you.”

The discussion was over. Jean went to shower. The sickness lingered, seeping into his bones where the water couldn’t reach it, and he ducked his head against the flurry. Marlow did apologise later, wrapping his arms around Jean and kissing him softly, the way he liked, and explained that Jean was like this beacon that made him lose his head. He told him that he fell so sharply into moments that he couldn’t stop and think about the consequences. And it was all down to Jean. Bit by bit, Jean gave in, and Marlow’s small kisses and murmurs of “every Sunday” made Jean’s stomach churn in a good way again. It was muffled, meagre, but better than nothing.

His bags were already packed. He’d packed and re-packed several times, in case he’d missed anything, but when he was reminded with a jolt that he was due to leave, he had to check a fifth time. Just in case. Marlow did the gentlemanly thing of carrying the two bags out to Jean’s car for him, even offering a small smile to Jean’s mumble of gratitude. His father didn’t come out of the study. Jean saw the flit of light underneath the door and sighed; he was there, alright, but he wasn’t going to see him off. He wouldn’t have expected anything more.

The trailer was attached to his car already, gleaming and perfect, and Sina’s tack was waiting to be loaded in the backseat next to his bags. Marlow helped with that too; with a grunt, he got everything in snugly and stepped back to admire his handiwork. After a curt nod, he wrapped Jean in a tight hug and kissed the side of his head before pulling away, chucking him under the chin as he backed away, his movement slow and sauntering. Jean waved, and turned back to the trailer. Everything felt so organised, like clockwork. He liked it that way. Now all he needed was his horse.

Underneath the bruised clouds he brought Sina out of her stall, the young mare dancing on her toes and pulling at the leadrope. “Come on now, steady it down,” Jean said soothingly, stepping closer to adjust her thin fleece travel rug and boots. They were pale blue, the colours of the team, and made a stark contrast against her copper coat. His eyes didn’t fail to drift to her neighbouring stall, and his heart sank when he didn’t see Buchwald’s head poking out.

“He’ll be okay.” A voice said.

Jean spun around to see Levi walking towards him, hanging a halter up on the nearest peg as he passed it. Petra had got to him before he’d left their house, Jean noted, as he had an elegant black jacket slung over his usual white shirt. “He’s grieving. We can let him grieve for a while. I’ll do some one on one training with him, see if it’ll help him adjust.”

Jean wet his lips and nodded. “Y-yeah…”

Levi fell into step with him as he led Sina back towards the waiting trailer. “I won’t let him get ruined,” he said to break the silence.

“I know.”

“I’ll keep your father occupied with the weanlings. Your horse will be safe.”

“I know.”

Levi sniffed as if that clarified matters, and walked ahead to lower the ramp of the trailer. Jean gulped back the lump in his throat. “L-Levi?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m gonna…”

“If you say ‘miss you’ I’ll kick your teeth in,” Levi hissed.

Jean couldn’t help the nervous laugh that barked out of him. “R-right.”

Levi smirked. “Honestly. Get your mare in the trailer, Kirschtein.”

Jean hurried to obey. Sina loaded without a fuss, eyes only for the haynet Jean had set up for her in the trailer’s corner. The moment she was secure and ready, he stepped out and lifted the ramp up with Levi’s help. As they slid the bolts back to lock it into place, Levi said, “you’re coming back on Sundays for training, I hear.”

Jean nodded. “One of dad’s ‘conditions’ about working at the other yard. I might not bring Sina back each time, though- it’s not fair on her, having to travel back and forth so much.”

Levi made a hum of agreement. “You can train on Buchwald, or one of the school horses. I can get it cleared with your father.”

Jean smiled. “Thanks, Levi.”

“It prevents unneeded stress for the mare. That’s why I do it. And your father wouldn’t want to see the animal stressed for the next competition, would he now?”

Jean raised a brow, smiling despite himself. Levi liked to offer explanations for his actions that took him as far away from human affection as possible. The way he looked at Petra suggested that he wasn’t made of stone; he loved, he cherished, he protected, just like other people. He was just quieter with it. A lot of horse people were. Levi’s eyes moved around the yard and lingered on Marlow’s back as it slunk away through the gaps in the stable blocks. “You’d do well to make friends in Jinae, Kirschtein,” he said thoughtfully. “Jinaeans are a good breed, good horse people. And much more besides.” He let out a sigh as Marlow disappeared around a corner. “They put a lot of things into perspective.”

Jean wasn’t sure what Levi meant by that, but as he unlocked his car and turned his keys in the ignition, he had a bizarre flutter of nerves mingled with optimism. He was going to find out. This was _it_. He was getting out.

He gave Levi a short wave as he pulled out of the yard, and got a salute in reply. Despite the trainer’s threat, Levi and Petra would be the people he missed, he thought to himself. They, at least, gave him something akin to a home, even if Levi hated to admit it. It took him too long to realise that Marlow wasn’t head of the list. He shook himself. Of _course_ he meant Marlow…

When he pulled out of the yard and onto the long drive, he let out a relieved chortle. It may have been temporary, maybe have been a fleeting bout of freedom, but Jean Kirschtein was out. He wound down his window and inhaled the sweet, damp air that hung like dewdrops from the clouds. He was sure he looked like a lunatic, trundling down the road from Trost Riding Academy beaming like a Cheshire cat, but he didn’t care.

He was getting out.

He was getting OUT.

* * *

The drive to Jinae was mainly uneventful. Jean was determined not to get lost, remembering the simple instructions Eleanor Bodt had relayed to him during one of their several telephone conversations. He wrangled his way through downtown Trost on autopilot, every movement practiced and repetitive. He could hear Eleanor Bodt’s voice in his ear as he turned a corner out of the bustling city and onto a more open road.

Those several phone calls were partly initiated by him, some by Eleanor, like they had a sense that the other needed to ask a question and immediately rushed to the phone. Her sunny tone would beam out the second the call connected, no matter the time, and it felt good to hear his name said in such soft, fond tones. He’d refused her attempts to pay him, stating that he wasn’t qualified enough to deserve it, and pressed that he would work for nothing except room and board. No matter how much Mrs Bodt protested that they would manage whilst paying him, Jean was sure an extra mouth to feed would slice into their finances.

She also agreed on the Sunday condition, and seemed ecstatic that he wanted to bring Sina along. “She’ll be no trouble at all, dear!” she’d said, her excitable volume enough to rattle Jean’s ears, “We’d be happy to have her! The children would love to see such a beautiful animal up close!”

So, as Jean turned onto the main road, he knew that he would be welcomed by Eleanor Bodt. But what about the son?

Jean flushed at the hope that Marco would be looking forward to having him around too. Shallow infatuation aside, Jean was fascinated by the other boy. He wanted to know his story, especially where the big black gelding was concerned, and definitely wanted to see him smile more often. Call it curiosity, but Jean wanted to know everything about Marco Bodt.

The flat grey landscape soon gave way to rolling green hills and cheery stonework as he turned off the main intersection, following the brown signs for Jinae. The country was wide and open, with little sign of human life anywhere. But the horses!

They were everywhere. Old work horses, ploddy and slow, shared pastures with bored sheep, whilst a band of yearlings careered around their paddock like trainee racehorses, bolting away from the fence as Jean’s trailer rattled past. Ponies huddled together in the onslaught of wind, native breeds stood firm with their thick coats and manes as wild as the weather. Hot bloods, cold bloods, heavies or light, all appeared to make Jinae their home. Jean couldn’t stop the grin that was slowly spreading across his face. Maybe they were country bumpkins, like Marlow had suggested. Maybe they were innocents that time (and money) forgot. But Levi was right. Jinae was horse territory. Jean knew, nervous or not, that he would be okay.

Jinae village was tiny, nothing more than a handful of rickety houses and shops, but there was a quaint charm to it that Jean never saw in Trost. Everyone seemed to know each other, and there was no scurrying back and forth like in the city heights of Jean’s home town; these people shuffled to their destinations without worry, calling out greetings to one another and complimenting the unremarkable weather. Jean stopped there, cheeks flaming since his mind had officially failed him, and asked for directions. It turned out that everyone knew the stables. “That’ll be Ellie Bodt’s yard!” his guide crowed delightedly, a rotund little woman with a brilliant smile. “Wonderful little place, struggling now but such a _lovely_ family. That Ell’, she’s doing a grand job up there, real grand. Taught my boy to ride, she did.”

“Good woman, that Ellie,” her companion piped up. “Good heart. Deserves the world, does Ellie.”

Jean couldn’t help but agree. He hadn’t known the woman for long, but already he knew that she was one of the genuinely _nice_ people of the world. She didn’t have much, but she was willing to share it with anyone who needed it. The way she spoke over the phone allowed him to hear the concern flooding into questions- about him, the horses, the yard. She didn’t know everything, obviously, but she knew enough to know that Trost Riding Academy was not as idyllic as everyone made it out to be. She _cared_ about that. And, as Jean pulled away and followed his guide’s instructions, he only hoped that he would be good enough to warrant some of that care too.

It turned out that the stables wasn’t too far away from where he’d gotten lost; the entrance to it was nestled on a gentle slope, buried into the hedges lining the bumpy little country lane. Jean would have missed it, if he hadn’t been looking for it. The little hollow just seemed like part of the scenery, like it had always been there and always would be. It had a welcoming feel about it, though, with a cast iron gate that had long since rusted away into the hedgerow and a painted sign reading 'Bodt Riding Stables, Jinae:  Society Approved' in peeling paint the colour of brick. It was cute. Jean bit back his grin as he swung into the entrance carefully, making sure the branches didn't scratch the sides of the trailer.

The little path his car took was as bumpy as the road he'd just left, and very quickly curved into a simple car park with no real markers. It was a small space, barely enough to fit six big cars at a time, but Jean assumed that most of the riders were local. They could probably walk there, if the quiet roads were anything to go by. The menage was directly in front of the car park, and a lesson was already going on when Jean pulled into the nearest space and killed the engine. He recognised the slightly odd woman from the showgrounds stood in the centre of the arena flapping her arms in an effort to make the bored grey cob trotting past her move. Her efforts were doing little to persuade him, and neither were the enraged kicks of the girl riding him. He continued to plod, his sides numb to the girl's protests, and Jean couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. Now, this looked like a riding school. A little run down, good natured, with horses that looked like they'd seen better days. This was what he expected to see.

There was an air of comfort about the place that confused him; it seemed to ooze from every bit of cracked paint or rusted bolt, and he realised that he hadn't felt his stomach churn once since he'd pulled in. That was a nice relief. He wondered where Eleanor was. Had she seen him come in? He craned his neck to look behind him, but only saw a little row of empty stalls, presumably the usual haunts of the horses in the arena. Where was the house? Did he have to go find her himself? Did she remember he was coming?

The longer he sat there, the longer Jean began to feel like he was the odd one out. This little place was in its own little bubble, and he felt like an intruder. He was suddenly too dressed, too neat, and the prickle of insecurity rose up around his ears. The lesson was finishing, and the girls on the horses had spotted the trailer. He sank down into his seat, trying to think and pretending to glance down at something on his phone. One of them pointed at it. His cheeks flared with heat, and he ended up ducking out of his car and opening up the side door to the trailer. He had to do anything to avoid the burning eyes and heavy questions- from fucking _thirteen year olds, Kirschtein, honestly-_ and a second later he was greeted by a velvet nose and bright eyes.

"Oof, h-hey Sina," he said, running a hand up the mare's face with a weak smile. She’d travelled okay- there was nothing to suggest signs of stress, if her over enthusiastic way of headbutting him was anything to go by. Jean felt his smile become a little more genuine as the trailer shielded him from the stares and mutters. "You ready to get down and dirty with the riff raff?" he asked her, and got another headbutt in response. He hoped she would settle okay. Horses were creatures of habit, after all, and Sina’s routine had been changed over and over during her time at Trost Riding Academy. He gave her neck a heavy pat. “We’ll soon find out, won’t we?”

The mare inhaled the fresher Jinae air with quivering nostrils, ears flicking forward curiously at the new smells and sounds of horses. Once Jean had unhooked her leadrope, she swung her slight body around to peer out of the gap in the trailer, ears pricked and body shaking with excitement, and Jean realised he had nothing to worry about. He gave her another pat and ducked out from the trailer to open the tailgate from the outside, smiling at the way Sina stood quietly behind the divide even as he lowered the ramp to the ground and stepped back.

The buzzing in his pocket made him frown. He brought it out to see that it was Reiner, of all people. He answered. “What’s up?”

“Is it moving day for you today?”

He grinned. “How did you guess?”

“You sound happy as hell, and I just saw Marlow looking like he’d stepped in dog shite. And he lmost fell over. I’m having a wonderful day.”

Jean snorted, turning back to the car to retrieve his keys. “You’re awful,” he chided.

“I try. Sorry I didn’t catch you before you left, Bert slept in and I didn’t have the heart to wake him.” Reiner’s voice took on a more sombre tone. “He’s pretty upset about Cyclone. I mean, he still doesn’t know exactly what happened, but not having him around is getting to him. He came to the yard earlier and I let him ride Gladiator, but apparently it’s ‘not the same’.”

“Well, he has a point. Gladiator’s built like a brick shit house, and Cyclone was all… lanky.”

“Bit like Bert.”

“Hey, you’re the one who said it.”

“It’s alright, he’s not here right now. He went home to be with his parents. Some big fancy dinner I’m not invited to. I don’t think his father likes to flaunt his son’s homosexuality in front of potential investors.” Jean caught the bitterness in Reiner’s voice. “Still, suppose I deserve it after the last time I went round. I swear his dad nearly knocked me out.”

“That is impossible.”

“Looked like he was gonna give it a good go. The old lady too.”

“Eesh, what did you do?”

Reiner went uncharacteristically quiet. Jean waited. “I may have told them that God invented the prostate,” he muttered.

Jean groaned. “You are every in law’s nightmare.”

“I panicked.”

That sounded like Reiner. Jean grinned. “It’s good to hear from you, man. I’m sorry I’ve been a bit of an asshole lately.”

“Ah, forget about it. You’ve had a lot on your mind, and life hasn’t exactly been the funnest of fun right now. Just go have fun shovelling horse shit at that country stable, and ogling that cute brunette.” Jean could imagine the grin Reiner was giving him.

“Oh, you can fuck right off.”

Reiner’s cackling could be heard even when Jean pulled the phone away from his ear and hung up, snorting. He’d heard hooves. Maybe another ride was coming in. He peeled himself away from his car, keys now safely tucked into his pocket, and checked the time on his phone. Eleanor hadn’t given him an exact _time,_ but…

“She’s a pretty horse!” he heard a young voice say. His head jerked up. Sina was probably looking out of the divide; he didn’t want to seem arrogant, but she was a pretty horse. More than that, she was _beautiful-_ she had all the pedigree bloodlines judges asked for at competitions, and a handful more besides.

He walked the length of the trailer to get Sina out- but then heard the voice that answered.

“Y-yeah,” it said, all dulcet and warm, “she is. Feet out of the stirrups.”

Jean stopped.

His crushes were usually fleeting things, existing like mayflies between the hours only to flutter and die at the end of the day. They were nice feelings, those mayflies, and Jean had learnt long ago to embrace them instead of trying to swat them away. But these ones were biting, and biting _hard._ It was ridiculous. It was illogical. He had- well, he had _something,_ he couldn’t really define what Marlow was. But still, here was Marco Bodt, just talking to a little kid, and Jean was close to cardiac arrest. _Oh god, was he in trouble._ His pulse fluttered traitorously against his chest, and he bit his lip as he held back from appearing. Just for a little bit. It wasn’t spying- not _technically._

“Is she new?” The girl was asking now.

“Sort of,” came the voice again, that same voice, and Jean’s heart had the nerve to somersault. _Goddamnit._ “Ready to dismount? You need any help?”

“No, I can do it!” Jean heard a thunk to signify that the girl had listened and had actually dismounted from her horse. He bit his lip. He wasn’t sure, but he could swear his cheeks were burning again. _Fuck fuck fuck._ He had to make a move. Had to step out from behind the trailer and stop snooping around like a child. He could do it. He could talk to him, for God’s sake, he’d done it before. He took a breath, and stepped out.

Marco had his back to him, his attention caught on the very fat and disgruntled looking Shetland pony he was helping the little girl untack. The girl couldn’t have been older than seven, but she ducked under the Shetland’s neck like she’d been doing it her whole life. Jean leant against the side of the trailer, watching. They didn’t teach children that young at his yard. They started teaching at twelve. A Shetland pony, therefore, wouldn’t be seen dead at Trost Riding Academy.

Marco and the girl worked together on the pony, the little girl’s brow creased in concentration as she learnt how to run up the stirrups and fasten them so they wouldn’t fall down again, and Marco’s smile encouraging her on. Jean tried not to dwell on the smile. He had a feeling that, if he did, it would fall into dangerous territory. Instead he looked at the pony, the way it stood, the way it tried to throw its weight around despite only coming up to Marco’s hip. When they were done, the little girl made to run off to her mother, but Marco cleared his throat. She stopped. “Have we forgotten something?” he asked, the attempt to be stern dying on his lips from the way he smiled.

The girl rolled her eyes like it was a chore to run back and encase the pony in a clumsy hug. Jean chuckled as she nuzzled her face into the pony’s thick fur. “Thank you for the ride, Bubbles!” she said. _Bubbles. Cute._ She kissed the pony’s nose and beamed. **_Super_** _cute._

Marco smiled again. “Much better. You’ve always got to remember to thank your pony for taking care of you!”

Jean bit his lip again. _Hard._ Was Marco some sort of perfection? Was that even possible?

“I’ll remember! Thank you, Marco!” the little girl gave a sort of manic wave as she screeched a “BYEE” whilst running back to her mother, and Marco just watched her go with a soft grin. He looked so happy stood there, like being around horses was the only time he felt that content. He hadn’t looked like that at the showgrounds. It was nice, seeing him on his home turf. He looked… comfortable. That was what prompted Jean to kick off of the trailer and move towards him, ignoring the way his pulse decided to beat a quick rhythm against his ribs.

“Aww, you’re giving me diabetes here, Freckles,” he said as way of introduction. It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t a ‘hello’. Hopefully, it would do the job.

Marco spun around, startled, and Jean immediately reined in the bright grin he was sporting. He managed to wrangle it into a half smile, and tucked a hand into his pocket. But Marco didn’t say anything right away. He simply _stared._ He stared like Jean was some kind of exotic bird that had flown in; Jean swore that at one point his head even tilted, like a puppy. He tried not to laugh. If it had been any other person, he probably would have been offended. But it was endearing, the way Marco looked at him, like he was trying to figure out what Jean was exactly.

He saw the large eyes widen when he realised he’d taken too long. “O-oh, hey!” he said, the noise bursting out of him without the soft warmth of before. The ferocity of his welcome made Jean blink. The look of utter horror on Marco’s face afterwards, however, was enough to make him laugh. _Yep, he was cute. He was allowed to think that._ Marco was turning a rather tasteful shade of red, so Jean decided not to torment him any further.

“Hey to you too,” he grinned. “How you been keeping?”

Keeping calm whilst in the presence of a boy that made his heart do strange things was surprisingly easy- easier than Jean expected, at least. Marco seemed a little nervous, for one thing; his jerky nod and fumbling reply about the summer holidays and lots of children starting lessons sounded absent minded, but Jean nodded along. “What about you?” Marco asked.

Jean thought back to the week he’d had. He grimaced. “It’s been a bit crap lately, I gotta admit,” he tried, lowering his gaze to scuff his shoes in the gravel. He really did not want to explain. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to, not with the way Marco was frowning with such concern. _Oh god **please** don’t look like that. _

“How come?”

Jean bit his lip, scuffed his shoes a little more, then gave a pleading look upwards. Marco’s mouth rounded into a little ‘o’ and he stepped back, turning to the Shetland pony and the tiny saddle it was trying to shake off. “Well, I hope you’re ready to be bombarded,” he said in a bid to change the subject, “because mum’s just about ready to explode. She’s not stopped cleaning since she knew you were coming to stay.”

Jean couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him. He could imagine it now. Eleanor was probably like a freight train when she got going, rolling through each room and cleaning it to within an inch of her life. The fact that she thought he was worthy enough to deserve such a good impression made him smile. “Aw no, really?” he asked.

“Really.” Marco’s voice was deadpan as he started to undo the pony’s girth.

“Whoops. Mums cleaning are the worst.” Jean wasn’t sure why he’d said that. He couldn’t remember his mother cleaning a day in her life. Then again, there was a lot he couldn’t remember about her.

He watched Marco work quietly, marvelling at how quickly he was able to slide the saddle off and sling it over his shoulder. It was probably lighter than the usual saddle, he mused, but still had the same amount of straps and leather. Marco had been doing it all his life, Jean realised. What sort of _muscle_ was he hiding away?

“Tell me about it,” Marco said, breaking Jean out of his daze. When he turned back, he blinked at the lazy expression Jean was fixing him with. “What?”

Jean shook himself. _Whoops. Going off in your own little world there, keep focused._ “Nothing.” Marco was still blushing. He blushed a lot. “Who’s this?” he asked, diverting his attention to the pony. It was now frisking Marco’s pockets, at perfect head height for the delicate nose.

“Bubbles,” Marco answered, relieved that Jean’s gaze was, for the moment, off him. “She’s used for beginner’s lessons and walk outs.” To Jean’s amusement, when Marco moved away from the pony, she followed, stubbornly sticking her nose into his pocket to see if he was hiding anything from her. “Oi, no! I don’t have anything today!” Marco chided her.

Jean chuckled. “She’s cute.”

Marco made a face. “She’s a pig with hair.”

“Aww, that’s mean.” Bubbles seemed friendly enough. She was on the plump side, it had to be said, but the way her ears twitched hopefully when Jean took a step towards her made him smile. He reached down to scratch her wither, the soft hair damp with sweat from where the saddle had lay, and Bubbles stretched her neck with a pleased grunt at the attention. “I thought Shetlands are meant to be the spawn of Satan,” he commented.

“Devils come in all shapes and sizes, don’t let her innocence fool you.” Jean’s eyes flicked up to meet Marco’s, and saw that Marco’s smile was more natural now. Jean jumped a little at the feeling of an intrusive nose, then relaxed as he looked down at the pony. Bubbles was nuzzling him. “How weird,” Marco said, “she doesn’t tend to like strangers that are bigger than her.”

“Clearly I’m no threat,” Jean replied. Marco’s smile widened.

All nerves and worries seemed to vanish into that smile. He hadn’t realised until then that Marco was just as tense as he was. Sure, the blushing was a bit of a giveaway, but there was a difference between shyness and being scared of someone. And Marco had seemed scared. Jean really wasn’t sure why anyone would be scared of _him_ , but the fact that Marco had relaxed now relaxed him too, like a chain reaction. It was weird, for someone he’d only met twice. They weren’t close. Couldn’t _possibly_ be close. But there was that fondness still resonating between them, like reunited friends, and it made the squirms in his stomach settle. “S-so,” he said, breaking out of his reverie to scratch the back of his neck, “how are we doing this? Sina first, or my bags?”

Marco looked thoughtful, like he’d been shaken out of a self-same daydream. “Um, I dunno… mum probably has an idea.”

“Ah. Where would she be?”

“Oh, she’s got to be around here somewhe-”

“JEAN?”

Jean knew that voice. He’d heard it down the phone a number of times. Marco, to his amusement, stiffened at the sound. “Oh no,” he sighed.

“What?” Jean blinked. The sudden icy fear filtered back into his stomach. Was there a mistake? Had he come on the wrong day? Had Eleanor changed her mind? _What?_ “What is it?” he asked, trying his best to hide the worry in his tone. He wasn’t sure he pulled it off.

“Just… brace yourself,” Marco said. “You’re about to become forcibly adopted.”

“Wha-?”

Jean didn’t have the chance to say anything else. Eleanor Bodt rushed at them like a small hurricane, wrapping her arms around Jean like he was an old friend and nearly choking him in the process. Jean was overwhelmed by the smell of hay and cooking and _a mother,_ and he found himself hugging her right back. It was probably strange; he was a total stranger, after all, hugging this woman he barely knew and trying to compress the relief and fondness flooding through his system. He wanted to look at Marco to check he wasn’t finding it weird, but Eleanor was spinning him around so much it was disorientating. By the time she was done, he saw several Marcos spinning on their axis. And that was when the babbling started. “Jean! Dear, I didn’t think you’d be here so soon! Not that that’s a problem, that’s fine, but oh it’s good to see you! I hope you had a good week, I hope you weren’t worrying about getting here because we’ll make you feel right at home, and oh you look half-starved-”

“Mum, leave him alone! Not everyone’s used to ultimate friendliness!”

“Oh, yes, quite right.” And then Jean could breathe. Eleanor released him with a bright grin, and he found himself giving a weak grin in return. “Marco, take Jean’s bags to his room won’t you?” she said, turning to her son and slipping into a far more business-like persona. The change was worthy of whiplash. “I’ll get Sina nice and settled, Jean, don’t you worry about that. Unless you’d rather see to her yourself?”

Jean was a little bowled over. “E-er… no, that’s fine, go ahead. I’ll just help Marco, I guess?” Eleanor’s bright smile was answer enough for him.

Even his wildest imagination couldn’t have predicted how accepted he’d become in such a short space of time. Marco was already shaking his head with a small smile, untethering Bubbles and leading her off whilst Eleanor bombarded him with questions about Sina’s preferred grazing and feed and social standing in the group at Trost Academy. Jean just stood dumbly, not quite sure what to say first. ‘Thank you’ sounded too lame, but that was the only thing coming to mind.

He didn’t have chance, in the end; sooner than expected, Marco was done with Bubbles and ready to help him haul his meagre luggage to their house. Marco protested that he would take the suitcase, so Jean swung the rock-heavy rucksack onto his back and let Marco lead the way. The Bodt’s house turned out to be a small cottage nestled around the back of the yard, almost sandwiched onto the last few stalls out of sight of the road, and Jean stopped for a moment to take it in. It was made from the same grey stone that made up many of the walls Jean had seen driving in. The roof was missing a few slats, and the chimney looked like it was about to fall off. There were no flowers in the hanging baskets by the side of the door, presumably because the horses could reach out and take a nibble and they didn’t want to risk poisoning, but there was a small scribble of greenery that clung on regardless. The door was a cheery blue, with windows either side of it and above, like a child had drawn a picture of a house and slapped it onto some blueprints. Like a child’s picture, too, the cottage was a little lopsided and crooked in places, but Jean just stared.

“Is everything okay?”

He blinked and took in the sight of Marco’s worried face. “Yes,” he replied immediately.

Marco apparently mistook his reply for disgust, because he scuffed his shoes in the dust and grinned shyly. “It’s not much,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “Sometimes it leaks when it rains, a-and one of the windows doesn’t open… but we like it.”

Jean’s eyes snapped open. “Oh, n-no it’s not that! I just… haven’t stayed anywhere like this before.” Jean dared to let a smile spread across his face. “It’s… great. Really great.”

Marco laughed again, the light laugh he’d used around the girl, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, our place isn’t exactly the Ritz… there are far nicer places in Jinae…”

“I like it,” Jean interjected, hoping that it would deter Marco from putting down his home any further. “Where do I, uh, stay?”

Marco brightened up at that and jogged to the door, pulling it open with a gentle _crrreak._ “I can show you.”

Jean caught a glimpse of a thin hallway leading towards a kitchen and potential living room before he took the stairs, huffing and puffing as he went. They were steep, and curved round a little to get up to the second floor. He guessed that Marco was used to it, but his calf muscles were screaming by the time he got to the top floor and followed Marco into a modest sized room. The bed looked like it creaked and the desk was old enough to be antique, but Jean immediately felt a warmth rush through him. This place felt loved, lived in, and it wasn’t something he was used to.

“S-sorry about mum,” Marco was saying as he heaved Jean’s suitcase onto the bed. “She likes visitors. We don’t get them that often, so when we do she likes to go all out.”

Jean stared at him. Was he serious? Didn’t he understand that the thought of coming here was what had kept him going over the past few days? _No, he doesn’t_ , he reminded himself, _and he doesn’t need to know. You can deal with it yourself, no need to burden a stranger._ He bit his lip as he turned away, pretending to look over the room. “Oh- no, it’s fine. It’s nice to have the attention, actually.” Something flared hot in the pit of his stomach after admitting it. _What was that about not burdening strangers?_

“Oh?” Marco asked.

Jean sighed. He swung his rucksack down off his back and began to unzip it, pulling items out as he went. “I know, an attention-seeker isn’t the best sort of person to hang around with. But it’s what comes with being the youngest of four- you take all the attention you can carry.” _Shut up shut up shut UP_.

Marco, thankfully, didn’t ask any more questions. Maybe he didn’t want to know. Jean didn’t blame him. He continued to rifle through his things, putting and placing them around the room in an attempt to bring something of himself with him. He’d done it at boarding school too; bringing parts of your life with you meant that you didn’t feel so alone. He had the rosette from the Jinae showgrounds, a creased up photo of Buchwald from when he was a foal and a few pictures of the various horses he’d ridden throughout the years.

He could feel Marco’s eyes boring into his back, watching patiently, and he felt the tips of his ears burn from the attention. “D-do you want me to leave?” Marco asked the room, and when Jean turned around he saw him stood next to the door looking a little conflicted. When their eyes met, Marco’s widened. Was he still afraid? “I- I mean, people like to settle down before they start talking to people, and I dunno whether that’s you or you’re the other kind, and I have chores to do if you do wanna be on your own for a little bit so I won’t bother you but I don’t know if you want to help or if you want to start in the morning,” he gabbled. The longer he spoke, the more Jinaean his dialect became until Jean had to strain to catch the warbling, fast tone.

He bit back the ‘ _CUTE’_ his brain was screaming at him and opted for a casual shrug. “You can go if you’re busy, but it’d be nice if you stayed,” he mumbled, turning back to pluck the numerous work books he’d had to pack from their place at the very bottom of his rucksack.

_Please stay._

Marco’s eyes widened a fraction more, before he sat on the edge of the bed. “Sure, whatever,” he said, offering Jean a smile as he worked.

There was a brief beat of silence between them when Jean continued to unpack, placing books here and there to make sure they weren’t in prime tripping-over areas. He was bored of silence. He had sat through vast caverns of silence, the kind that stretched as far as the eye could see without any hope of ever stopping. Jean couldn’t let the silence continue.

So he talked.

He talked a _lot._

And Marco listened.

He added in a few mumbles of encouragement, but he listened. He moved from the edge of the bed to full out _sprawling_ on it, the motion making his top ride up and expose a slither of lower back (which Jean tried his best not to stare at for more than ten seconds at a time) but they just talked. About everything. Soon, the dam Jean had been busy constructing burst its banks, and Marco was flooded with information about him, whether he liked it or not. Jean was the kind of person that could talk forever once he was comfortable with someone, and though it usually took months, he was divulging things to Marco in minutes. It was strange, he thought; the other boy seemed to have this energy about him that he couldn’t describe. It reached out and soothed Jean’s prickly misgivings, and he’d be damned if he was going to let that pass him by.

When the conversation moved onto Marco, however, the change was immediate. The boy clammed up, face swiftly turning red the more Jean pressed him, and however subtle Jean thought he was about the ‘girlfriend’ question, Marco rather bluntly blurted out, “Why would you think I have a girlfriend?”

It was a reasonable question. Jean hadn’t really thought about it. He’d just assumed. Marco seemed like the kind of guy people would flock to, and that meant girls too. Marco would make a good boyfriend, Jean thought. He’d be sweet, kind, selfless… he snapped out of it and offered a frown to Marco’s genuinely perplexed face. “So… you don’t?” he asked, playing dumb.

Marco opened his mouth once, twice, before settling for a, “no.”

“Huh. I genuinely thought you and Ackerman were an item…”

“I _told_ you, she’s not interested!”

“Yeah, and I said you were totally in her league.”

They were fringing dangerous territory now. Marco’s blush got brighter, a hand rising up to cup his face as he let out a groan of torment. “Well, what about you?” he said, “do _you_ have a girlfriend?”

Ohh, this was what Jean was afraid of.

He folded his arms and stared up at the ceiling, thinking of how to politely construct his answer. Jinae was a nice enough town, but he didn’t know where the records stood on homosexuality. Marco didn’t look like the sort to judge, but he could never be too careful. He traced the cracks in the ceiling with his eyes, wondering numbly whether it was water damage or not, before he realised he had to give an answer. If he was defensive, Marco would recoil- not a good move. If he avoided the question, Marco wouldn’t trust him. He chewed his lip. Then Marlow popped into his head. _‘You belong to me…’_

“I have Marlow.”

He spoke it to the ceiling more than to Marco, but when he let his eyes drift down all he saw was a frown.

“Marlow? That’s a guy’s name.”

Jean raised a brow when he turned to look at him. “Oh, no shit Sherlock. He’s my boyfriend.” _Boyfriend._ Was that what Marlow was? It was easier to explain it like that, Jean supposed. Still, it felt strange coming out of his mouth, like there was something stuck that needed extracting.

“O-oh…” Marco’s gaze went to the ceiling too. “That’s…nice…”

Jean couldn’t help it. He smirked. “Well, I’m kinda attached to him, yeah.” When Marco didn’t respond, the first flash of panic stole through him. _He’s a homophobe. He’s a fucking homophobe and you have to get out now. Forget the stable, forget the horses, forget **him** you gotta go-_ “That’s not a problem, is it?” he tried.

“What?” Marco’s eyes snapped open again, wide and worried. “Oh, no, not at all! Sorry, there’s no problem at all, it’s fine! I just… didn’t expect it.”

The earnest plea in Marco’s eyes softened Jean’s panic. He chuckled, relieved at how much his heart rate was slowing. _Everything was fine, stop jumping to conclusions, you’re okay…_ When Marco looked more confused, Jean chuckled again. He kept his eyes away from the other boy then, keeping them deathly focused on the bedsheets he was now sitting on. He’d noticed that Marco’s eyes smiled. They were the colour of hazelnuts, gentle and doe-like in the limited light of the room. Jean was having trouble keeping the butterflies down. “Nobody ever does. Dad likes to pretend I’m not.”

“Really?”

Jean kept his eyes on the sheets. He hadn’t been around him long, but he knew the tone of voice that meant that Marco’s brows were drawing together, that he was frowning out of something more than confusion. Marco’s compassion was making Jean burn up. He changed the subject, and remarkably, Marco changed it with him.

* * *

Eventually, Marco had to leave. He didn’t seem like he wanted to; even when he was backing out of the door, he grabbed for the doorframe to steady himself as they continued their conversation. Chores were chores, though, and Jean definitely didn’t want to get Marco in trouble, so he waved away the other boy’s nervous apologies and said, “Go on, go look after the clip clops, Freckles. I’ll carry on unpacking, I don’t care.” Little did Marco know that Jean _had_ unpacked. He hadn’t brought much with him, because he didn’t really have much to bring with him. When money was no object, it was surprising how little you owned. Marco didn’t need to know that, of course. If he knew Jean would just be led on his back staring up at the ceiling, he probably would have felt guilty for doing his job. _Nerd._

He was more than a cute face, Jean had to give him that. Behind his smiles and jokes and playfulness, there was something _there_. He couldn’t figure out quite what it was yet, but he had time. He had all of the summer to figure it out. His stomach jolted at the thought. _All summer._

Jean rolled onto his side and let his eyes linger on the window in the corner, letting out a sigh as he did so. He wondered if it looked out on the yard, or on the rolling hills above the little town. He’d noticed them coming in, looming like sleeping giants over the Lilliput cottages and farms, and felt oddly rested by the thought. There was no noise here either, nothing but the occasional neighs of horses and the whistles of Marco as he worked around them. Jean didn’t realise he was smiling until his cheeks started to hurt. Oh, yeah. He was going to like it here.

Only when he woke up with a jolt half an hour later did he realise he’d been asleep. “Shit,” he hissed, scrambling off the bed and almost falling flat onto the floor after noticing too late that one of his feet had gone numb. Stamping the pins and needles that fizzled like static beneath his skin, he caught the smell of cooking on the air. It smelt _insanely_ good. He tentatively approached the stairs, peering over the banister to catch another waft. There was a nagging reminder in the back of his mind to wait until he was called- that was the etiquette in his house, at least- but his stomach betrayed him with a growl resembling a small bear. He bit his lip. Maybe a trip to the kitchen wouldn’t hurt. He could say he was going for a drink of water. Yeah. That’d work.

He took the steps cautiously all the same, stopping every time he heard a beat of music or the humming of Marco’s mother. She had a soothing voice, the kind that could calm babies, and as he got to the bottom of the stairs and turned towards the kitchen, her humming trickled out through the crack in the door. It took only a few steps to reach that door, and Jean remembered to take a breath before stepping inside.

The kitchen was just as welcoming as the rest of the house; painted a sunny yellow, it looked every bit the countryside kitchen. Eleanor was stirring something around in a big pot on the stove, and she glanced up at the sound of footsteps. She smiled. “Jean! Hi there. Is your room okay?”

“It’s great, thank you Mrs Bodt.” He smiled too, and tucked a hand in his pocket. Now he was here, he wasn’t sure what to do. This wasn’t his house, no matter how homely it seemed. Eleanor was watching him with interest, head cocked the way Marco’s had when he’d first arrived. “Uh, what are you making?”

Eleanor clicked her tongue and gave him an exasperated look. “Should’ve known you had an ulterior motive coming down here,” she teased.

Jean stiffened, a hot stripe of shame shooting down his body and leaving him stuttering for his words. “S-sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you or anything, it just… it smells good, and-”

Eleanor looked confused for a moment, like she wasn’t sure why Jean had reacted the way he had, but shrugged and gave him that same easy going smile her son had adopted. “It’s fine, Jean. I’m making stew. Nothing too glamourous I’m afraid!”

Jean bit his lip. Did she really think she had to stand on ceremony for him? Her apron looked starched, and there were no holes in her shirt like the one she’d worn at the showgrounds. He swallowed painfully. “I like stew,” he mumbled lamely, peering around the little kitchen with that same sinking feeling he’d had before.

“Well, you can be my taste tester then,” she replied breezily, and before Jean was even aware of it he was getting a wooden spoon shoved against his lips. “Go on,” Eleanor urged, “it’s not too hot. Just simmering.” 

He inhaled suspiciously, like an animal testing the air, and took half a spoonful. The meat melted in his mouth, and the vegetables were soft from being cooked for so long. It tasted _amazing_. He let out a groan of pleasure- then clapped a hand to his mouth as Eleanor laughed.

“I didn’t think my cooking was _that_ good,” she commented with a smirk as she turned back to the stove. Ignoring Jean’s embarrassed spluttering, she offered him another spoonful. “Now have a _proper_ spoonful. You look like a good blast of wind will knock you down. Dunno what your father was feeding you on, but you need some good Jinaean cuisine in your stomach if you’re going to be working in hay and straw all day.”

Jean flushed at that, but took the spoon. “You’re a good cook, Mrs Bodt.”

“I’m a terrible cook, but thank you for flattering me.” She gave him a smile over her shoulder, and Jean felt like he’d been given something precious. “My Ma always said that I could burn cereal if I tried hard enough. You’ve seen nothing yet.”

Jean let out a chuckle at that, and continued his silent search of the room. “Is Marco still doing the chores?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah. That boy works himself to the bone, I swear.” She tutted as she reached up on her tiptoes to grab the offending pepper pot from its place on the top shelf. “It was nice to hear him finally sit down when you got here. He’s always out there with the horses. I think he prefers their company to mine at times!”

Jean scoffed. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

Eleanor laughed again, and turned to face him. Her hair had untangled from her ponytail, and she blew it out of her eyes as she looked him up and down. “You are such a flatterer, Jean Kirschtein. Did your father teach you that, or are you just naturally talented?”

Jean scoffed again, but this time felt the hot rush of blood to his cheeks as he looked around for a glass. “Dunno. Don’t know much about my father’s social tactics.”

“Don’t know much about him, huh?”

Jean stopped his search for a second. He thought back. He bit his lip. “You’d be surprised how much I don’t know,” he answered. He hated how dull his voice sounded.

Eleanor was quiet for a moment. He resumed searching. “Here,” she said, and when he looked back she was pressing a glass into his hands. He hadn’t even had to ask.

“Uh, th-thanks,” he said.

“Now, Jean,” she said, her business tone back in place. “I told you what I expect. I want you to work hard, and believe me it _will_ be hard. We’re not like your father’s place. We have a tight ship to run, and it just keeps springing leaks.”

Jean nodded. “Yeah, I know…” he took a sip of water.

“Erwin getting injured was the least of our worries,” she muttered, her eyes clouding over as she let herself loose in her own thoughts. They clearly weren’t comforting ones, for after a moment she shook herself like a dog in a snowdrift. “I don’t know what your father told you about us, if he bothered to tell you at all, but so long as you’re here, you’re one of us. That means you have the responsibilities we do.” She looked him up and down again, and Jean swallowed painfully at her scrutiny. “Can you ride?”

Jean snorted. “What kind of question is that?”

“I’m serious.”

He shrugged. “Of course I can ride.”

“What kind of horses?”

Jean thought back. Ever since he was seven, he’d been riding horses. He couldn’t remember a time without a showjumping jacket in his wardrobe, or the smell of horse and saddle polish coating him like a second skin. He could ride athletes. He could ride horses that were large, sleek, free of imperfection. He could ride champions. He could ride to win. “I ride what I’m told to ride,” he answered, in an attempt at being modest.

The corners of her eyes crinkled as she smiled slyly back at him. “Good answer, but incorrect.”

“But-”

“You ride good horses. Can you ride horses that nap, or bolt, or rear whenever they feel trapped?” Her eyes seemed to darken as she spoke. “The horses we’ve got here aren’t push button ponies, Jean. They have their own minds, and they will try to trick you. Riding schools are the best way to learn- once a child’s come out of lessons, they will be able to ride any horse without a problem, because if there is ever a horse with a fault, it’ll be a riding school horse. They’re good teachers, better than any human.”

“What about Titan?” Jean asked, not being able to help it. “He doesn’t look like a riding school horse to me.”

The energy seemed to drain from her at the mention of the gelding. “No,” she said eventually, turning back to her cooking. “He’s not a riding school horse. Titan is- is something else.”

“I’ll say. He’s got to be impressive, if my father’s after him.”

Jean didn’t mean for his words to be so tactless. Eleanor flinched, nearly dropping a pot of seasoning into the stew in the process, and spun around with narrowed eyes. Jean’s stomach dropped in horror at the anger flashing through her eyes and setting her teeth. “Well, your father can keep dreaming. We wouldn’t sell Titan to him if he was the last man on earth. He’s Marco’s horse, and Marco’s he will stay. Even if-” She came to herself. She turned back, muttering about horses and Jacques Kirschtein and where she’d stick a broom if she got close enough. When she’d calmed down enough, she added, “Still, you’re not him. I could tell that at the showgrounds. Call it intuition. You’re a different kettle of fish, Jean, a very different kettle. I’m glad you didn’t grow up in you charming father’s shadow.”

“Thank ten years of boarding school for that.”

“Ten?” The breath whooshed out of Eleanor as she gave the pot a final stir. “That’s a long time to be on your own, sweetheart. Weren’t you lonely?”

Jean paused. Being on his own hadn’t been so bad. He wasn’t completely alone, after all; he’d had friends at the boarding school, after all, and they were barely apart. He got good grades and worked hard. There was barely the time to be lonely. But when Eleanor Bodt asked him, in her homey little kitchen with the oak table and cheery magnets on the fridge, Jean felt that gap yawn into a canyon. He shrugged loosely, stomach sinking with the realisation. “It made me who I am,” he answered, though even he heard how little strength he had in his words.

A chuckle of mirth escaped Eleanor’s lips and vanished in the hiss of gas as the stove was turned off. “And who is that, exactly?”

Jean hesitated. “I dunno,” he said honestly. “Haven’t found out yet.”

“Huh. Now there’s something to think over, eh?” She grinned and offered him another spoonful of stew. “Taste, please. Then you can go retrieve my son from whichever stall he’s hiding in.”

When Jean took the spoon and tasted the slightly peppery vegetables that warmed his insides and curled around his gut pleasantly, he was inclined to disagree with Eleanor’s mother. She really was a good cook.

* * *

Finding Marco turned out to be easy. The light was starting to fail as Jean stepped out of the yard, casting it in a golden yesteryear glow, and the stables were alive with the sound of munching horses. Jean couldn’t help walking along each one, peering in at the occupant for a moment before continuing on.

He stopped at the stall labelled ‘TITAN’ and strayed for a beat longer. The black horse was in the corner of the stall, muzzle stained brown by the feed mix he’d just finished, and when he spotted Jean his entire body seized up, ears flicking forwards to remind the two legged that he was very much awake and alert. “Hey, bud,” Jean murmured, reaching out a hand to the gelding. “Haven’t seen you in a while, have I?”

Titan regarded him with suspicion, ears swivelling back for a second before taking a careful step forward, neck arching forward so that the intelligent head could reach without having to get too close. Jean laughed and laid his palm flat in a gesture of friendship. “For a horse so big, you’re a fraidy cat, huh?” Titan’s accompanying snort sounded like one of derision. It only took a second more and Jean’s fingers to wiggle invitingly for him to overcome his caution and come to him. His tail flicked against his haunches, sounding like the spray of a waterfall hitting a boulder, and the skin rippled at the impact. Jean couldn’t quite get over how beautiful the gelding was, his power and spirit clear in the way he raised his head high and pitched his ears back. He didn’t have the arrogance of an Arabian, but there was a kind of pride about him as he moved away from Jean’s hands, something primal about the way he looked that placed him on rolling plains or unforgiving terrain in Jean’s mind.

Then he remembered he was there for Marco.

Giving Titan an absent smile, he slipped away and headed for the other stalls, hands tucked in his pockets. Sina had already been fed, if her loud chomping was anything to go by as he neared her temporary quarters. At the sound of footsteps, however, her head appeared over the door, nostrils quivering excitedly at the sight of him. He grinned and strode over, running a hand along her face and scratching the spot at the back of her ear that made her limp. “What do you think of this place, huh Sina?” he asked her in a voice barely louder than a whisper, letting his grin widen when she butted her head into his chest. “Oof, yeah, I think so too. We’re okay here, girl, you’ll see.” He smiled and scratched her behind the ear again before he heard a commotion from the stable next to her. The horse inside sounded like it was catching its breath, grumbling and groaning like an old man. He raised a brow and moved away, letting his hand drop to his side as he took the few steps to Sina’s neighbour quickly. What he saw when he looked over the stable door made the warmth kindling in his stomach roar into fire.

There was a chestnut horse in the stable, greying and bony with old age. His bottom lip drooped and twitched as he dozed, the low groans and sighs one of comfort. And there, knelt in the straw, was Marco. He was running his hands up and down the animal’s legs, his thumb pressing into specific points that made the horse’s joint creak like a rocking chair, and his eyes were completely focused on his work. Not for the first time, he looked at home there in the straw, the quirk of a smile appearing when the horse’s chin sunk low enough to rest on his shoulder, and Jean fought down the butterflies in his stomach. Damn mayflies. Damn crush. Damn it all. He hoped it would end soon, this feeling, but when Marco let out a throaty chuckle he knew it might take longer than expected. “There we are, old man, much better, huh?” Marco was murmuring to the horse. “We’ve both got bad legs, haven’t we? Gotta take care of ourselves.”

“I dunno, you look pretty sprightly to me.”

The relaxed shoulders stiffened. Jean’s smile took a nosedive along with the butterflies. _Great. He was in his comfort zone, and you ruined it. Way to fucking go._ “J-Jean?” Marco asked, the stammer returning as he craned his head to find the source of the voice. “W-what are you-?”

Jean gulped. _What **was** he doing? _ He wasn’t sure Marco even wanted him there. Still, he was curious, and there was something about the other boy that suggested he wouldn’t tell him to leave. He slid back the bolt of the stable door before he could talk himself out of it. There was more straw on the floor of the stable than normal, no doubt due to the horse’s age requiring the utmost of comfort, and he felt like he was sinking as he walked forwards a few paces. When he noticed that Marco had stopped he mumbled, “Oh, don’t stop on my account. He likes it.” He made sure to shut the door securely behind him before going any closer. “I got bored upstairs, and your mum wouldn’t let me help, so I came to find you. What are you doing, massage?”

Marco nodded. “He needs it, otherwise his joints seize up.”

“Really?” Marco gave another nod. Jean felt it was a silent signal that his company was okay, and he sank down into the straw before Marco changed his mind. He crossed his legs as he gazed up at the snoozing horse, and recognised the small flash of white on the tip of his nose. “This is the guy you used to compete on, isn’t it? Champ?” he asked.

Marco’s smile was soft. “That’s right. He looks even worse in his old age, doesn’t he?”

Jean smirked. “He doesn’t look _that_ bad.” The old horse looked like a relic. The care Marco took over making sure he was comfortable and settled was amazing, though; as Jean reached out to touch the foreleg Marco had just finished massaging heat into, he could feel how supple the joint had become by just a small amount of attention. He smiled. The love was there, in Champ’s bones. There was no denying how much Marco cared for his old friend. “How old is he now?”

“We’re not really sure,” Marco admitted. “The vet’s guessed he’s about twenty five.”

“Twenty five?!”

“Sssshhh!” Champ jolted a little at the sudden increase in volume, but when Jean promptly shut up the head lowered down again, the lip wobbling uselessly on Marco’s shoulder. “Yes, twenty five. He’s still being ridden too, gently,” Marco said. There was a warmth in his voice Jean had never heard at Trost Academy.

He looked up at Champ again, listened to the slight wheezing breaths the gelding made as he slept, and blinked slowly. “I can’t believe he’s that old. I think the oldest horse we have at the Academy’s about fifteen,” he said. He thought of Cyclone. He shuddered. He wondered if Cyclone would still be alive if he was somewhere else. What if Cyclone had been brought here- would he have been treated, retired, let out to pasture to spend the rest of his days in the rolling hills and meadow grass? It was a stupid thought, a childish thought, and one that curdled Jean’s stomach. He tried not to think about it too much.

“Well, Champ’s part of the family now,” Marco was saying, the same soft tone melting Jean’s thoughts away. “We wouldn’t ever part with him.” Jean wished that it was the same at his yard. He had a pony stallion called Blue once, probably around the same time Marco was competing Champ. When he got too slow and stopped winning medals and rosettes, Jacques sold him to one of his friends for his young daughter. At least Blue had a better life of it afterwards, but nobody stopped to ask what Jean wanted. One minute, there was Blue. The next day, no Blue. Jean could still cry about it. But here was Marco, massaging circles into his old horse’s legs to keep his circulation up, and not considering him a burden in the slightest. Jean, for the first time, felt a stab of jealousy. This was what he wanted. Marco was still smiling, toying and prodding the joints to make sure they weren’t totally seized up, and added, “He’s still my baby, aren’t you Champ?” The noise Champ made in response sounded suspiciously like a snore.

There was one thing that remained confusing for Jean, no matter what happened in Jinae. It was all too clear that Marco loved the horses, but the more he thought about it, the more his mind wandered back to the showgrounds, and the way Marco had handled his current horse. Jean wasn’t an expert on human body language by any means, but he knew horse language. Titan was not at ease when he was around Marco. The gelding was always tense, like he expected a gun to go off at the slightest turn, and the more Jean thought about it, the more he realised that Marco was the same. The two were mirror images facing off, and the reaction from Eleanor in the kitchen only affirmed his fears.

Something was going on between Marco and Titan.

That was what prompted him to ask, after Marco’s admission of fondness for Champ: “What does that make Titan then?”

Marco tried not to react, but Jean noticed the way his jaw clenched and hands wilted against Champ’s leg. “Titan’s different,” he said simply.

 _Sure_ , Jean wanted to say, _Titan is different. Your mum said the same. But ‘different’ isn’t always bad. What are you so afraid of?_ Titan was big. He was powerful, and he had the biggest jump Jean had seen for a while. But he wasn’t loved. Something in the gelding’s eyes suggested he knew that, but why remained a mystery. Jean bit back the politeness he’d been told to keep at the forefront of his tongue, and went straight for the honesty. “You know, I know it’s none of my business, but for someone who owns such an amazing looking horse, you sure like going out of your way to avoid having anything to do with him.”

Marco stopped everything. For a horrifying moment Jean thought he’d gone too far. His stomach turned, and ice slide down his spine agonisingly slowly. But when Marco turned to look at him, the softness to his eyes remained. “It’s… it’s n-none of your business, you’re right.” The voice lacked conviction, though, and Jean relaxed a little. Marco’s eyes were cast downwards now, staring intently at the straw at his feet as his cheeks began to flush. It wasn’t an angry voice Jean was met with. It sounded… defeated. Like Marco knew that Jean would find it out sooner or later.

“I’m gonna make it my business,” Jean said, the defiance in his tone making Marco’s head jolt up.

“What?”

Jean bit his lip. He needed to phrase this carefully. “I’m living with you for the summer. That’s a long few months, Marco. I’ll make it my mission to find out why you ignore that horse.”

“W-why would you bother?” Marco asked. He straightened up, the noise bumping Champ back into consciousness, and Jean really had to hold back from screaming something at him.

Because you’re wonderful.

Because your mother is amazing, and she wants you to be happy.

Because you love horses, and I don’t know why you can’t love this one.

Because I think you’re the cutest thing I’ve ever seen and that scares me to death.

He couldn’t say any of them, but they were trapped in his head, whirling around with the power of a wind turbine behind them. The thought occurred to him that, crush aside, this boy was lonely. He’d known it back in his room, but now he felt it like a physical thing, draped over Marco’s shoulders like a cloak. He was lonely, and Jean didn’t want him to be lonely anymore. “Do you really want me to say it?” he whined.

The frown he got was even more adorable than the first. “Do I want you to say what?”

He huffed. _Remember to say the right thing, you don’t want to freak out the poor guy the first day you stay with him._ “That I want to be your friend, Freckles, and friends worry about each other. That’s why,” he said. There. That was safe. It was lame as hell, but it was safe. “Sounds so childish when I say it like that, like a fucking kid in a playground, but it’s true. God, it really does sound lame though, bet you think I’m such a stupid-”

“You know, you’re a lot nicer than you make out,” Marco said. When Jean looked back up from the floor, he saw that Marco was _beaming_. Full on beaming, like a sun in a child’s cartoon. He looked so alive, smiling like that. Jean tried to rub the redness out of his cheeks, but failed miserably.

He contented instead for a snort. “Cheers.”

Marco’s eyes widened in abject horror. “No, I didn’t mean it like that, I just-” He sighed. Stopped himself. Tried again. “Thanks. It’s… sweet of you, t-to care I mean.”

 _Sweet of you. SWEET of you._ Jean felt the blush come back full force, but this time he was okay with letting it sit on his cheeks. He opted for a broad grin, and a hopeful, “So you’ll tell me?”

Marco gave a sly grin. “No way.”

 _Oh, you motherfucker._ Jean threw his head back and _groaned._ “Aw, c’mon!” Marco’s laugh made him giddy, even when he was being gently nudged towards the door. So, his suffering was amusing, was it? He’d see about that. Marco wouldn’t know what hit him. The thought made his stomach fizz. He’d blurted out that he wanted to be this guy’s friend in a voice akin to a ten year old, and he was still in with a chance? God really was smiling upon him. But Marco’s smile held more secrets, secrets he was very happy to keep quiet. “Please?” he tried again. “I _will_ get it out of you, just you wait!”

All he got in return was a good-natured huff.

_Yeah, Marco Bodt. Just you wait._


	7. Break Down The Garden Gate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ayyy so Hackamore finally updated! :D   
> and uh, it kinda got away with me folks, apologies for that...  
> One thing I will say though is as Hacka is getting a /tad/ out of control in regards to chapter lengths that it won't stick wholeheartedly to the layout of No Reins: obviously, this is Jean's story and his experiences are very important, so they will take precedence over some snatches of dialogue he has with Marco in a random scene of No Reins, for example- plus, there are going to be a lot of scenes that could have fitted into NR but didn't for reasons being that Marco didn't think them important, but Jean did. So, uh, yeah, lots of words, lots of plot.   
> In which Jean has a bonding exercise with Marco's mother and a grumpy old cob horse, tries his best to find out what /exactly/ Marco has going on underneath the surface... and toeing a fine line between guest and part of the family.   
> It's wholesome. It's heartwarming. It's good for the soul. Like soup.
> 
> But anyway, I hope you enjoy it, and please leave a comment if you do! :) 
> 
> Lars x

Despite his promise, Jean decided not to bombard Marco with questions on his first night. It was partly because Marco could give fiercer glares than his fumbly nature promised and partly because, well… Jean didn’t want to seem like he was picking on him. It seemed impossible, but Marco was just… nice. That was the only word that described him accurately enough. Both Marco and Eleanor were _nice_ \- and their lives were so completely different to Jean’s that he found himself watching them like a nature documentary.

When he and Marco sat down to dinner and were chided by Eleanor on how they both stank of horses, Jean waited for the rest of it- the anger, the scolding, the hissed disgust. But all Marco did was laugh and flick some of the hay at her as she served up the stew, and got a titter and a whack for the trouble. Jean knew he shouldn’t have been so surprised at this, but with Eleanor’s silent encouragement he gave a shy smile and merely brushed the hay from his shoulders before he put the spoon to his lips. Eleanor’s food was just as good served altogether, especially when she brought bread to the table. It tasted of home cooking and left a hearty warmth in his stomach afterwards. No wonder Marco devoured it like he was scared it would vanish.

Jean wasn’t sure what would happen after dinner, but Marco already had something in mind. Eleanor let them go after Marco cleared the table (amid Jean’s protests) and Marco led the way to a small, narrow room with a television that should have been declared vintage decades ago and a moth-eaten old sofa with the filling leaking out. Jean didn’t like the way Marco seized up as he looked at it, no doubt seeing it through Jean’s eyes and cringing at how scruffy it looked. “This is, uh, where I watch films and stuff,” Marco explained, intentionally avoiding Jean’s eye. “I-it looks a bit rough and ready, but trust me it’s super comfy.”

Jean blinked. “No, it looks cosy. I like it.”

Marco smiled, albeit nervously, and shuffled towards the television. “W-we can watch whatever you like, there’s a box over there with everything in.”

Marco still thought of him as a guest, Jean realised. It would go with time, he expected, but it still left a strange tug in his chest cavity. “Why don’t you choose?” he asked. When Marco looked up from fiddling with the reception, Jean shrugged. “Unless, you know, you have bad taste or whatever.”

For the first time, he saw Marco smirk at something that wasn’t a horse. “You think I’d have bad taste?” he asked.

Jean blanched. “Not what I said,” he backtracked. “Do _you_ think you have bad taste, Freckles?”

Marco chuckled and rubbed his cheeks, consciousness stealing over him due to the nickname. “I dunno, I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

“Can’t wait.”

Marco picked _Seabiscuit._ Jean considered it a safe choice, but once they both curled up on the sofa and Marco threw a blanket at Jean that smelt of hay and mothballs, Jean knew he was a goner. He’d forgotten how sad the film got at times, and he wasn’t too proud to hide the tears that were streaming down his face near the end of the film. Marco saw, but didn’t comment until the credits were rolling. Only then did he turn and ask, “Are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry on the first night…”

“It’s fine, j-just… d-don’t let me watch Black Beauty alright?” Jean said, scrubbing at his cheeks with his sleeve. “O-or S-Spirit, I’m a goner if I watch either of those.”

“Huh. Duly noted.”

“Please don’t repeat that.”

“To who?” There was a shade to his smile as he spoke, and Jean almost felt sorry for him. Then the smile corrupted into a toothy grin. “Besides, it’s great blackmail fuel.”

The sympathy died quickly after that.

When they finally went upstairs, stepping quietly so as not to wake Eleanor, Marco paused outside Jean’s door. “If you want anything in the night, just knock on my door. I’ll wake up. I won’t be happy about it, but I’ll wake up,” Marco said. “Just don’t go to mum’s room, she sleeps like the dead and you’d be skinned alive if you woke her before she was ready.”

Jean chuckled. “Like Mother, like son eh?”

“Something like that. Though she’s a really good morning person- I’m really not.”

Jean grinned, then hesitated. “Are you always so honest?” he said. He hadn’t meant for it to come out so bluntly, but it was something of an unbridled thought.

Marco’s good humour sobered to a slight frown. He considered it for a moment, brow furrowed as he thought, before he shrugged with a teacherly smile. “I try to be.”

There was a little twist to Marco’s smile when he bid Jean good night- he even bowed his head, slight enough to be unconscious, and Jean found himself doing the same with a polite smile. Once the door closed, he let out a low breath. Then he let the smile split into a giddy grin. The room- _his_ room- was waiting for him, laid out the way he’d wanted it with the duck egg covers thrown slightly back as if to welcome him in- that was obviously Eleanor’s work. He undressed slowly, and looked out onto the moonlit yard. He couldn’t see Sina’s head poking out from here, nothing but the first few stalls where the two piebalds and Titan lived. All appeared asleep, fed and watered and calm, and as he looked up at the moon Jean felt just as content.

Despite that, when he faced the bed he had the familiar flutter of dread in his stomach. He thought too much; he always had, even when he was little. He had thoughts roiling around in his head like they were being tossed upon wave after rough wave, and after such a day of change they were roaring more than ever. The only remedy to the intruding thoughts was to stare up at his ceiling and hope that his brain would take mercy on him. As he slid under the covers and looked out one last time on the yard beyond his window, he waited for the tidal wave to crash.

It never came. He slept sounder than he had in years- or so he thought, for he was furiously shaken awake when the sun was just beginning to rise. He groaned and cracked an eye open to see Eleanor Bodt hovering over him, already dressed and eyebrow cocked. “Wha’ issit?” he blurted out.

“You were talking in your sleep,” she said. Jean went cold. “Well, shouting’s more accurate a word for it. I thought you were having a nightmare.” She then paused. “I can’t remember if you’re supposed to wake someone during a nightmare or let it run its course… bugger.”

Jean blinked, feeling more chilled than ever. “I was?” He flopped his head back down onto the pillow. _Shit. The one time he’d dreamt, he had to have a nightmare?_ “What was I saying?”

“Something about a Cyclone?”

He shut his eyes tighter. “Oh.” Suddenly, sleep felt impossible.

He shuffled to a sitting position and raked a hand through his hair, spotting the way the ashen parts stuck up on end from the mirror on his wardrobe. Eleanor looked a little surprised at Jean’s choice to stay up instead of sinking back under the covers. She smiled and gave his hand a little pat. “I’ll go make you some tea,” she said, and then she was gone.

Jean stared after her in dim confusion. Why would she go to the trouble? He was a guest, he reminded himself, but he didn’t expect to be given special treatment. The way she laid her hand on his shoulder and pressed the mug of tea into his hands when she returned made him think that she would do the same for Marco if he were the one who had woken up early. “There we are,” she said. “Tea makes everything better, or so my mother told me. She should know, she married an Englishman.” Jean stared as she patted his shoulder and gave him another of her smiles. They weren’t the smiles she used on her customers- it was a kind of fondness Jean hadn’t seen in her before. He blinked slowly. Eleanor had accepted him into her fold so readily- did that mean Marco would too?

This thought was what made him call out a soft, “Wait,” when she made to back out of his room again. When she looked quizzical, he sighed. “S-sorry, but… you know about Cyclone, right? I told you?”

Eleanor’s face softened. Something told him that she’d been feigning ignorance before. If it was to spare his feelings, he may have cried there and then in front of her. “Yes, Jean, I do know,” she said after a pause.

Jean wetted his lips. “It’s not like he was mine or anything,” he said. “b-but…” He sighed. “Sorry. This is stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” Eleanor moved away from the door and perched herself on the edge of his bed. “Putting animals down is never a picnic, love,” she admitted, dropping her gaze into her lap. “The judgement was made on the horse’s behalf. It was for the best, I’m sure, but that doesn’t make it any better.” She glanced up at this, and Jean saw the way her eyes darkened like forests around the edges.

“Don’t you ever feel stupid for caring. It’s a good quality in horse people- it means you’re doing it for the right reasons. I can remember the first time I saw an animal put down, and my husband was at the other end of the syringe.” She shook her head. “I cried for a week, Jean, and it wasn’t my horse. My husband told me something then that I’ve always found important.” She levelled her gaze with Jean’s again. “He told me that it’s a hard life, doing what we do. We lose a lot of good horses through sickness or freak accident. There is a lot of loss, but there’s also a lot of gain. Remember that. Just be thankful it wasn’t your mare.”

Jean looked down into the milky dredge of his tea. He felt oddly better. The weight was lighter on his chest now, and the words she offered were beginning to sink through his skin. He offered her a small smile, and she took it with a grin of her own. “Thanks, Mrs Bo- Eleanor.”

Her grin only widened. “Don’t worry. Seeing as you’re up, do you feel like putting some of the horses in the paddocks with me?”

Jean blinked. For a moment, he was wrongfooted by how sincere she seemed, and when he realised she was serious and did indeed want him to get up and help her, he nodded. “S-sure, yeah, I can do that!” he said, taking a gulp of his tea to get it down faster. He nearly choked. It was still scalding.

Eleanor chuckled. “Finish your tea, you silly goose! Just grab your clothes and meet me outside. You can grab Magic, I’ll take Jester and Raven. And after that, you can help me with something else too!” And with another breathless grin, she vanished from sight, hauling her hair up into a loose ponytail as she went. Jean sipped his tea as quickly as he dared anyway, and practically bounced out of bed. If there was one thing Eleanor Bodt was good at, it was being brisk.

When he’d clambered down the stairs (mindful not to wake Marco) he opened the door to the yard gingerly, squinting into the rosy dawn. Eleanor was in the tack room, if the sound of merry jingles was anything to go by, and when he drew nearer she thrust a faded headcollar into his hands. “Magic. Dark bay cob, corner stable, looks like a grumpy old man, can’t miss him!” she trilled, and with that Jean’s work began.

Magic wasn’t as slow as he looked; he tried to rush his way down to the field, skidding and sliding on the frosty ground as he went. He had no problem whatsoever with flattening Jean should he get in his way, but with a sharp shout and a swift tug on the leadrope Jean had control and the cob grumbled along beside him- until he tried to squash him against the gate. Still, once the leadrope was unclipped and the headcollar off Magic barely went a few metres away before dropping his head down to graze. Jean rolled his eyes, but made sure the gate was open for Eleanor and the pair of piebalds two seconds later.

On the short walk back along the rubble track, Eleanor piped up, “Still awake, boyscout?”

Jean washed a hand over his face and offered a shy smile. “Just about. What was the other thing you needed help with?”

“Maybe help was the wrong word. It’s more like… reassurance.” When Jean looked quizzical, Eleanor explained, “Well, you’ve accepted the teaching job and I know you can ride… but I haven’t had a demonstration.”

Jean frowned. “You saw me ride at the showgrounds.”

“I saw you _compete_ , dear, those are two separate things.” She turned on her heel as they reached the yard and walked backwards, sizing him up with every step. “When you compete, you’re trying to impress. Your form’s all rigid and professional, and that’s not what I need to see.” She turned and headed for the tack room. Jean followed her. “I need to see the way you ride on a hack, Jean, when it’s just you and the horse moving together. It’s a beautiful thing, a horse and rider in sync.”

Jean shrugged, noticing the way Sina’s saddle and bridle stuck out like a gleaming, imported sore thumb amongst the tangle of leather in the riding school’s tack room. “I guess I’ll go saddle up Sina then, if that’s what you-”

“No, not Sina.” Eleanor’s eyes gleamed as she brandished a rather large and particularly old bridle at him. “You’re gonna be riding one of my horses. I want to see what you can do.”

Jean scoffed. Piece of cake. If he could get a hot blooded firecracker like Sina under control, then a ploddy schoolmaster would be child’s play. Eleanor shooed him away as she heaved a dusty saddle onto her shoulder, and he did as he was told.

He opened the gate to the arena as Eleanor darted away to get the chosen horse ready, scuffing the ground with his boots. The arena was a simple enough thing, a fenced off sand ground he knew to be called a ménage, but whether that was what Eleanor and Marco called it was another matter. It wasn’t immaculate like the one back at the Academy, but it was well-loved, like the rest of the yard; the fencing was a little crooked in places and the letters had been hand-painted on a thick white, but it added to the charm. He walked the length of the arena, turning in a large twenty metre circle out of habit, and chanced a look over to the paddock on the right of the arena. Its occupant stared back.

He hadn’t even known Eleanor let him out.

Titan looked even bigger in the paddock. Even the tallest parts of the arena fencing only reached the top of his sloping wither; the horizontal parts of the fence were the perfect height for jumping. Jean wondered if Titan had ever leapt the fence before. He was sure the gelding could, if he wanted to. Titan regarded Jean with a wary curiosity, nostrils flaring and sending out puffs of air into the early morning sky like a dragon. He didn’t move as Jean stood there; he could have been a statue, carved from marble and onyx and left as decoration. Titan didn’t grant Jean the pleasure of seeing that ferocious, tearing gait he’d exhibited at the showgrounds. Instead, the gelding simply stared. He broke the illusion to bring his hoof down a few times. He shook his mane. But that was all. The two faced off, both intrigued at the other, and eventually Titan lost interest. He dropped his head to graze, and Jean could breathe again.

“Here we are!” Eleanor cheered from behind him, and when Jean turned around he let out a short laugh.

She was leading forward the chunkiest, laziest looking horse Jean had ever seen. Grey in colour, the horse champed at the bit only idly, and seemed reluctant to move quicker than a few stumbling steps. Jean vaguely recognised the flat, sloping head and dustbin-lid hooves from the showgrounds, and as Eleanor led the horse into the arena, he definitely recognised the way the animal glowered at him. It was almost as though it were chastising him for getting it up so early. “So, Jean!” Eleanor said, holding her rein out to one side to further show the horse off, “meet Pegasus.” The horse snorted through his nose. Eleanor grinned. “What do you make of him?”

Jean blinked at the horse. Cob, definitely- there was no mistaking that stout body and large hooves. He wouldn’t be able to know for sure without looking at his teeth, but his guess was that Pegasus wasn’t young. No young horse would give such a look of disdain. The typical mix of ‘cob’ and ‘old’ was a good one for a riding school horse, but not great for a jumper. Jean had seen that at the showgrounds; this was the horse that had refused and then dumped his rider without even making it look exciting. He looked like a nag. Obviously, Jean realised, he couldn’t _say_ that. “He’s, uh, lovely,” he remarked.

Eleanor’s laugh reminded him of a horse’s nicker. “What do you think about taking him around the arena once in a canter without a stick to back up your leg?”

Jean frowned at her. “Just a canter?”

She grinned. “You’ll see.”

“Uh, sure.” Jean failed to hide the scepticism in his voice when he strode towards the cob, sticking his foot in the stirrup and hauling himself onto the broad back. The first thing he realised was just how wide Pegasus was; the gelding had a stomach like a barrel, and Jean’s legs weren’t used to it. He could feel his muscles straining even as he adjusted his position in the saddle, and leant down to give the horse a comradery pat. Pegasus didn’t even flinch.

Eleanor laid a hand on the gelding’s paddock-stained coat and grinned. “Remember. Once around the arena. A complete canter. No whip. Just leg aids. Think you can handle that?”

Jean nodded. “Piece of cake,” he replied, offering a dazzling smile as he turned Pegasus out onto the outside track. He didn’t want to sound too cocky- the Trost Academy label was already pinned to his chest like a badge after all- but the surge of confidence he felt as Pegasus began to pick up his feet a little more was too great. _This was going to be too easy. Just a canter? Give me a challenge, why don’t you?_

Once they hit the outside track, marked with the ghosts of hoofprints that had come before, he gathered up his reins a little short so he could feel Pegasus’s mouth on the bit and the teeth that champed against it, and gave a gentle nudge with his heels the way he would with Sina. The gelding completely ignored him. He just continued to plod around the arena at a walk, ears flopping lifelessly like a rabbit’s as he moved. Jean frowned- maybe the gelding had misunderstood his aids- and nudged him again. This time, the grey ears fell back in acknowledgement… but still, nothing. “Come on,” he hissed, giving a less gentle nudge into the gelding’s sides. Pegasus tossed his head with a bad tempered snort, trotted for three blissful strides, then dropped back to a walk. Jean could feel his patience slipping. “Go!” he ordered, “Come on, get!”

Pegasus didn’t seem to care; he was apathetic to every kick or shout, no matter how hard the kicks or loud the shouts. Eleanor called Jean back into the centre of the arena once he managed to get Pegasus trotting in a complete circuit, hands on her hips as she watched him turn the gelding in an elegant arc despite the burning ache in his legs. It wasn’t a canter, but it was a start. Jean’s optimism didn’t come out straight away; the first thing he felt, when he caught sight of Eleanor’s face, was shame. He hadn’t done what she’d asked of him. He’d failed. When he stopped fighting and let Pegasus amble to a stop, he could feel his face burning.

When he gathered up enough courage to look up, he was surprised. Eleanor wasn’t glaring. She was smiling. “Do you see what I mean?” she said.

He blinked. “Uh…?”

She shook her head, chuckling good-naturedly in the same way her son did. “You can ride horses, I don’t deny that, but you ride horses that are bred to listen to you. Like I said before, you ride good horses.”

He ducked his chin down into his collar, the burning to his cheeks threatening to singe the starched material. “W-well I haven’t ever had the opportunity to ride anything else.”

Eleanor did scrutinise him then; her eyes narrowed to thin almonds as she raked over every inch of his face as they stood there, her in her tattered riding gear and Jean in his cleanly ironed shirt. Pegasus even began to doze. Jean figured this scrutiny had to be important. Maybe his defensive response had intrigued her. “Well,” she said eventually, laying a hand on Pegasus’s neck, “it’s lucky that you’ll get the opportunity here then, ain’t it?” She gave the gelding a hearty pat and patted Jean’s knee for good measure. “Come on, get down from there. Marco will be up soon and I should get breakfast ready for you both. You have a long day ahead of you, Kirschtein. You won’t know what hit you.”

Jean’s legs felt like rubber when he dismounted. It wasn’t the pleasant ache he got from when he’d been riding Buchwald or Sina; it was just a dizzied sort of numbness that he hadn’t felt before. Getting back to solid ground was a strange feeling, like he’d been flung out of water suddenly and had to learn to walk again. He felt this way, but didn’t show it. He led Pegasus back to his stable without so much as a limp, reserving that for when he winced and whimpered and cursed during the untacking. After the gelding was seen to, the sun was almost in its correct place in the sky. The mist seemed to have boiled away and left the valleys surrounding the stables clear and crisp. When Jean wandered back to the arena to make sure the gate was closed, Titan was watching. The dark eyes never left Jean’s figure, not even when he turned and made his way- painfully- back to the house.

Marco was slumped at the kitchen table when Jean stepped inside, raking a hand through his bird’s nest of hair. When he saw Jean, he looked a little more awake- then it faltered. “Ma, coffee?” he bleated, reaching for an invisible mug in mid-air.

“Ugh, such a caveman in the mornings,” Eleanor tutted, setting a steaming mug in front of him. “Jean? Coffee? I’m sure you’ll ask nicer than my son-zombie.”

“Tea’s fine.” Jean couldn’t hide his wince when he sat down quickly enough.

Marco’s eyes flew to him over his coffee. “You alright?” His eyes narrowed sleepily. “Did you sleep okay?”

Jean spared a glance in Eleanor’s direction, but she continued on with the tea, humming under her breath to harmonise with the whistling kettle. “I slept fine, I just… I sleep awkwardly sometimes,” he lied. Eleanor’s brow quirked, but she said nothing. Jean was grateful for that.

* * *

Jean knew that Eleanor had told him to ride Pegasus to prove a point. She probably didn’t expect anyone to be able to do it, let alone Jean; the old dinosaur of a horse probably hadn’t broken stride for that long since he was a colt, and Eleanor knew it. But one thing Jean did have was determination, and the inability to drop an idea once he had it between his teeth. The next morning, he woke with the sun barely peaking the horizon, and got dressed in a hurry. He stole down the stairs as carefully as he could manage, though he was sure Eleanor would be awake, and made a beeline for the tack room. He snatched the gelding’s tack off its respective brass pegs and gave the grey a gentle wake-up call. The gelding blinked lazily as Jean fitted his tack in the stable, soft brown eyes watching him with mild curiosity as Jean pushed the bit between his teeth and threw the reins over his head. “Come on, Pegasus,” Jean muttered under his breath, “let’s see if we can get you airborne.”

The arena waited for them, looking far larger than it had the day before, and Jean’s jaw set. He mounted without a word, drove his heels into Pegasus’s sides, and let out a loud, commanding cluck of encouragement. The grey started off optimistically, head bobbing and ears flicking back as he listened to his defiant rider, but when Jean drove him into the corners and gave the familiar canter aid, Pegasus merely flattened his ears and trotted faster.

And so it went on, for days on end. Every day he woke up, tacked Pegasus, and dragged him to the arena. And every day, he limped back to the house sore and bruised for breakfast. He made sure it didn’t interfere with the chores; he didn’t want Marco to have to pick up _his_ slack. Marco was a good teacher, and Jean was a good listener when it mattered. They mucked out the filthiest of stalls, they waste-picked the fields, they caught the horses needed for lessons and cleaned the tack. Jean had known that there was a lot to do concerning the horses, but he’d never expected there to be so much _without_ them. And whilst they worked, he got Marco to talk. Only a little- he didn’t want to ask too much and seem like he was poking his nose into the other boy’s business- but Marco took everything in gentle good humour and often talked without stopping for breath. It was more than Jean could say, as he leant panting against the stable partition after a particularly gruelling mucking out session.  

Jean didn’t mention his training sessions with Pegasus. Those mornings were intrinsically _his_ ; it was far more than approval from Eleanor now, instead something more like a personal challenge he had to complete. It might have been his pride, mingled with a brute stubbornness. Whatever it was, Marco didn’t have to be know it. Jean definitely didn’t tell him about how, after Pegasus was untacked and back in his stable, he would sneak into Titan’s paddock and sit with his back against the fence.

The first time he did it, he wasn’t sure what compelled him. He was defeated, he was sore and he wanted a breather before he slunk into the kitchen with his tail between his legs. The paddock reminded him of home, of when he would take Buchwald out and just gallop until he stopped. There was no real reason, the first time- Jean just ducked under the fence, got comfortable, and waited. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, but he knew deep down that it was for the giant gelding who grazed there. Sure enough, it hadn’t taken long for Titan to jerk his head up and pitch his ears forward at the visitor to his domain. He snorted, tossing his head in the arrogant way hot blooded horses had of warning off intruders. Jean said nothing. He didn’t even move.

Titan bolted first; one moment he was there and the next he was gone, snaking across the back of his paddock with his ears pinned back and eyes fixed on Jean suspiciously. Jean’s breath lost him as he watched how fast the gelding ran. It was like watching a moving painting, Titan’s muscle rippling under his coat as he swept along, borne by the wind. Once the initial excitement wore off, however, the giant became rather used to sharing his territory with the strange little two-legged. Jean found it strangely peaceful around the horse, and sometimes even dozed where he sat. Once he’d woken up to find the gelding almost in his face, and that had caused a surprised squeal from both boy and horse and swift exits. Jean knew he shouldn’t have been so fascinated with Titan- after all, he was Marco’s horse- but that just brought up more questions. After the third day of living at the Bodt stables, Jean started to do good on his promise, and ask Marco why Titan was so ignored.

The first time he asked, when they were cleaning tack together, Marco went rigid. “Wh-why do you want to know?” he said, turning away to scrub at a particularly stubborn saddle stain.

“I said I’d ask,” Jean pointed out. “So here I am. Asking.” He rested the bridle he’d been working on across his lap, and tilted his head. He hoped it looked endearing. By the colour of Marco’s ears ten seconds later, it did.

“I d-didn’t think you’d have the guts to ask,” Marco admitted.

Jean grinned. “Then you don’t know me that well.” His grin faded, however, when Marco bit his lip and returned to scrubbing, the saddle becoming dangerously frothy with leather treatment. “C’mon, Marco. I’ve not been here that long but I know that horse means something to you.”

Marco paused, sighed, and stood up to replace the saddle in its rightful place. “I don’t want to talk about it yet.”

“Yet?”

“Don’t twist my words.”

That gave Jean the ammunition to keep asking. And asking. And asking, and asking…

It became something of a running joke with them both, and by the day Eleanor passed his room and begged that he get her lazy son out of bed, the words were just another set of sentences asked every few hours.

Jean had just managed to dive back into his room after another unsuccessful attempt at getting Pegasus cantering, and thought he’d gotten away with it. However, the knock at his door and the trilling, “Mooooorning!” suggested he hadn’t been quite as subtle as he thought he had. Marco, apparently, hadn’t risen from the dead at his mother’s cheery greeting, and the job now fell to Jean. “What an honour,” he muttered under his breath, loud enough to cause Eleanor’s snort of laughter, and he made his way along the hall to get to Marco’s room. He knocked, attempting the polite approach first, but when there were no signs of life he pushed the door open.

He hadn’t been in Marco’s room before- not properly, anyway. Jean was the sort who respected others’ private spaces, and as he stood waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom within, he found himself looking at the walls. Marco had a desk and a noticeboard where he’d pinned some small sketches and photographs of horses, along with a handful of rosettes won as a child. When Jean looked closer, some of the photos were of Marco, but younger and riding ponies of varying colours. The toothy grin didn’t change throughout them all, and Jean caught himself smiling. The mayfly crush he thought was gone twitched pitifully in his stomach, but it died quickly. Jean finally turned to the bed and the Marco-shaped lump that occupied it, and took a deep breath.

“Marco?” he tried, hushed at first.

The lump didn’t move.

“Marco?” he tried again, louder.

Still nothing.

Jean frowned. He sat on the edge of the bed and poked the lump, hard. He figured he’d hit Marco’s side or stomach, but all he got was an aggravated groan and a sleepy wiggle. “Marco!” he shouted. “Wake up!”

“Nngh.”

_Aha. A sign of life._ Jean snorted and gave him another poke. “Don’t make me bring in an air horn.”

“Hrrmph.”

For a moment, Marco’s head poked over the top of the covers, eyes blinking open and squinting up at Jean. Jean bit his lip around a smile, and couldn’t ignore the scream of _cute cute cute cute cute_ that infiltrated his head as he looked down at him. Then he whined and pulled the covers over his head, and Jean’s smile turned to a pout. Okay, Marco was cute, but when he was sleepy he was just plain adorable. Still, he couldn’t admit that.

“Marco, come _on._ Your mum told me to come wake you.” Still no sign of movement. “Up and at ‘em, sleeping beauty.”

“Noo,” Marco groaned, the first time he used his voice that morning. It was thick with sleep and mumbled like a child. “Sleepy… bed… nice…”

Jean only just managed to muffle his laughter, and adopted the sternest voice he could alongside trying to yank the quilt away from him. Unfortunately, Marco held on rather tight. “Oh for fuck’s sake, let go already!”

“Noo.”

“Marco, get the fuck out of bed.”

“Nooooo.”

“I swear to God Marco if you don’t get out of bed this minute-”

As if those were the magic words, Marco appeared from above the mound of bedcovers and peered up at his tormenter. His eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, and with a girlish shriek of, “Jean!” he yanked the quilt so hard Jean lost his balance. He fell face first onto the bed with a muffled curse amid a yelp from Marco, and when he turned his face to look at him saw that he’d collected all of his sheets up around him like a cocoon. “What are you _doing_ in here?!” Marco shrieked, and Jean had done his job.

Merciless teasing aside, he mentioned Titan three times that morning, from when Marco squawked at him to get out whilst he changed (honestly, they both had the same anatomy, what was the problem?) to breakfast when he’d received a shower of toast crumbs for the trouble. Jean was beginning to think that his question would always be a running joke, nothing more. Still, he thought as he eyed Marco slyly over the lip of his mug, it was better than Marco freezing.

The thoughts were shaken rather roughly from his head when Eleanor, playfully scolding them, informed Marco that he had chores and Jean had a lesson to teach. Jean was surprised he managed to answer calmly without choking on his tea. He hadn’t had that much practice yet; all he’d done was shadow Eleanor when she took her lessons, and they were few and far between. Still, he nodded and drank his tea calmly and tried to get his insides to match his outsides for casual interest. “No problem, Mrs. Bodt. I can help Marco with the chores ‘til then.”

Marco blinked. “Oh, you don’t have to! I can handle it!”

“I want to,” Jean said, not letting on that it would be a good idea to distract himself from his nerves. “It beats just wandering around aimlessly for a few hours. I might as well earn my keep.”

Marco appeared scandalised at the very thought. “You’re already doing that!”

Jean stared at him for a moment. Marco was so scared to bother someone that he’d feel happier doing twice the work. No wonder they hadn’t hired any more helpers- Marco would probably be swimming in his own brand of guilt. That nice feeling came back, the one that settled his stomach and made everything all the more comfortable. He smiled. “Still. I don’t mind.”

And so he helped. Mucking out was a job that never ended- horses just kept on digesting, and stalls just kept on getting messy, but getting stuck in was something that Jean had no problems with. As he and Marco started out, Jean let his mind wander to the boy in the stall next to him. Maybe there was another way of asking about Titan without having to do it so obviously. Just having Marco near the horse was bound to bring something up about the past, and Jean couldn’t help the curiosity he was feeling for it all. As he shovelled, he felt his phone buzz with a text- unusual considering the fact that Jinae’s phone reception appeared to have never been set up by its forefathers. Jean wiped his hand on his trousers and fished around for his phone.

**[09:34] Marlow: _y haven’t u replied to me_**

Jean frowned. Replied to what? He scrolled up the message history with a frown. There hadn’t been any new messages. He tapped out a response, explaining that the signal here wasn’t the best, and carried on working. He got halfway through clearing the stall when he got a response

**[09:50] Marlow: _u answered that one alright_**

Jean rolled his eyes. ‘ _Because I got that message, dimwit’_ he responded, and tucked it away. He ignored the next buzz, and wheeled his full barrow to the muck heap.

Strangely, Marlow hadn’t been on his mind all that much since he arrived. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure that he’d had any feelings of _missing him._ That wasn’t right, surely? Jean felt a twist of guilt as he upended the barrow and added to the already mountainous heap.  Marlow had been lumped into the camp of his father, of the Riding Academy, of the cruel world where killing horses was justified and being the best was important. Jean had a feeling that it shouldn’t have been like that at all. Marlow was meant to be in his every waking thought, his body and mind aching for him after just a few days apart… but he felt nothing. He felt _free._

He shook himself. He was being ridiculous. Marlow was fine. He was good looking. He had that whole ‘bad boy’ look going on. But if that was enough, why did Jean feel so…empty when he thought about him? He bit his lip and made his way back to the stall.

The thoughts still lingered like a bad smell as he worked and only served to drive his pitchfork more firmly into the piles of manure, each stab erasing those ‘bad boyfriend’ thoughts out of his head. The singing helped too. He hadn’t sung in a while- he was always too conscious to do it at home, and boarding school was practically a no go zone- but here he sang. It drove the thoughts back further, made them cower into the furthest corners of his mind as he focused on nothing more than the words falling from his lips and the rhythmic motion of physical labour. That didn’t mean he didn’t miss sometimes, or keep his grip on his pitchfork and watch it clatter to the floor with a curse halfway through a word. And then came Marco’s giggles, soft and husky in nature. They made Jean drop the pitchfork without warning; a sound couldn’t possibly sound so warm and homely, but Marco managed it somehow. Jean let a smile trace its way onto his face. He could get used to having a friend like Marco.

Then he realised that Marco was probably giggling at _him._

“Are you laughing at me, Bodt?” he asked, feeling the blush on his cheeks without having to check.

The giggles were cut off abruptly. In their place came his voice, soft and sheepish. “Not at you! Um… what song is that?”

And everything felt calm again.

Jean decided to utilise his plan with Titan immediately after they were finished with the stalls, so once they were gleaming and all prepared with haynets and fresh water he asked, “Where’s Titan?”  in as innocent a tone as he could muster.

It didn’t work. Marco tried to be casual about it, but Jean didn’t miss the way Marco nearly dropped the haynet he’d been working on tying up, and the fumble of fingers that came afterwards. “Er… I dunno, probably in the paddock. Mum puts him out there in the mornings so he can stretch his legs.”

Jean knew that. He couldn’t admit it, though. “Which paddock?” he asked, though he knew the answer. He was striding over to the paddock before Marco had finished his answer, the dark shape already visible against the bright green of the grass. Jean couldn’t remember running, but he got there fast all the same, leaning on the fence as he gazed at the horse inside. Titan paused in his grazing to look up at his visitor, nostrils flaring as they caught Jean’s scent on the breeze, but then he returned to eating, content in the knowledge that it was a familiar face that watched him. Jean turned to talk to Marco- and found an empty space.

Frowning, he turned around completely and saw that Marco hadn’t got that far. He was fussing over Sina. Pride swelled in his chest as he watched the two of them, Marco giving his mare a careful little scratch on her neck that she seemed to like if the goofy face she was pulling was anything to go by. Marco got on well with every horse, it seemed. No animal felt uneasy around him; Sina wasn’t exactly an unfriendly horse, but she was a little nervous around people she didn’t know. Yet here she was, stretching her neck out and bobbing her head happily at the attention she was being given, and Jean could see Marco’s mouth forming words as he stroked her. “Hey Marco!” Jean called out. Both heads, Sina’s and Marco’s, shot up at his voice. “Stop flirting with Sina and come look at _your_ horse!”

Marco didn’t look too happy with the idea, but he started to head towards him. The limp was a little more pronounced now, something Jean had quickly shelved to the back of his mind, but concern flared up when he saw how Marco gritted his teeth as he leant against the fence. He didn’t question him. Now wasn’t the time, he could tell by the way Marco avoided his eye. When he did meet his eye, his brows were furrowed. “Why are you so interested in my horse?” he asked. It wasn’t a defensive question. It sounded genuine, like he wasn’t sure why _anyone_ would be interested in Titan.

Jean didn’t have time to explain exactly why he was so interested in him; if he did, he would have spent hours talking about his conformation, the way he carried himself, the way he jumped… but he managed to stop himself before he got too caught up in it all. “Because he belongs to you,” he said, figuring that was the safest reason. “Also, he’s looking fat.”

“What?! Fat?!”

That got him to look. Even though Marco’s expression darkened when he realised he’d been tricked, a film appeared over his eyes as he looked at his horse, cropping the grass peacefully. Jean didn’t blame him; he was constantly bowled over by how incredible the gelding looked, especially without the restrictions of the saddle and bridle. Seeing the horse free made him think of Titan’s desert ancestors that had roamed for miles without ever seeing a human being. Jean sighed. “He’s quite something, you know.”

Marco nodded. “Yeah, he is,” he admitted. He sounded far away, lost in his own thoughts.

“Shame he’s not a stallion.”

“Mmm.”

Titan lifted his head again, mane curling in the sudden pick-up of wind, and now he was paying close attention. Jean guessed it was because he recognised his owner, but Marco still looked a little sick. The gelding broke from his grazing and trotted over to the other side of the paddock, a whistling challenge echoing from his throat at the few school ponies in the adjacent paddock. They bolted at the noise, and Titan tossed his head in the arrogant way a stallion would when defending a territory. It really was strange that the gelding wasn’t a stallion- he certainly acted the part.

“Do you really not like him that much?” Jean muttered.

He felt Marco’s eyes on him, and didn’t know if they were shocked or angry. He hoped they weren’t angry. “I mean,” he continued, “I see you avoiding him every time you’re near him.” Still, Marco said nothing. Jean wanted to shrink away. He’d clearly offended him. “Sorry, but I just don’t see why - I mean, look at him.”

The burn slipped away from him and back onto Titan, and only then did Jean sneak a glance at Marco. What he saw made him frown. Marco looked sicker now than ever, his back ramrod straight as he stared at Titan, turning on his hindquarters and looking back at the two boys at the edge of his paddock. Marco was gnawing at his lip, so much so that it was starting to bleed. Titan hesitated, then walked over with his head low and mouth moving noiselessly as he chewed. Curiosity had overtaken his suspicion, it seemed. Jean jumped when Marco’s hands slammed onto the fence, white knuckled and shaking with tension. When he glanced at him, he felt the cold trickle of panic. Something was wrong.

“Marco?” he asked.

Marco couldn’t hear him. He was somewhere far away, his eyes glazed with a memory Jean couldn’t see; whatever memory it was, it was enough to lose every inch of colour in his cheeks. Titan was moving closer, his ears pitched forwards and nostrils quivering with intrigue. Jean looked back to Marco, saw the way he trembled, and wanted to reach out him. He wasn’t sure he was allowed- maybe it would drive Marco further back into his fear- but he wanted to. As Titan grew closer, Marco’s tremors increased, and only when the gelding was within touching range did Marco take one wobbled step back. The breaths that wheezed out of him definitely didn’t sound healthy. And then Marco swayed.

_Shit, was he going to faint?!_

Jean ignored his better judgement and grabbed for him, his hands reaching his waist first and clinging on tight. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to keep Marco up if he did decide to faint, but he’d give it a good shot. Marco was warm through his shirt, and there was a softness to his stomach that yielded at Jean’s touch. Puppy fat, most likely. Marco jolted, and the mist in his eyes seemed to clear. Jean had been his anchor, and now he was being pulled back to the surface. He blinked once, twice, then let his eyes land on Jean. They looked… confused. Was Marco not aware of what had just happened? Jean tried to keep his concern out of his expression; he tried to shrug it off as no big deal, things happen, but he couldn’t bring himself to. Marco’s doe-y eyes made short work of his composure. Still, he let his grip on his waist lessen, feeling a sigh run through Marco at the same time. “Wow, something’s seriously wrong, huh?” he asked.

Marco sighed again. Now he didn’t look at him. He looked away, back in the direction of the house, and Jean wondered if he was searching for a way out. He watched his eyes fall to the ground, his shoulders slumping as the wooziness wore off. “Y-you have… you have a lesson to teach soon,” Marco said. He sounded defeated. “I should go…”

Jean frowned. “Marco…”

“I need to tack up the horses,” he said, his voice picking up in both pitch and speed. “A-and then I need to clean out more stalls, and groom the Shetlands and…”

Marco was panicking- that much was obvious. What did he have to panic over? It was only Jean, only the kid who’d waltzed into his home and demanded he help for the summer. There was nothing scary about _Jean…_ was there? Jean hoped not. “Marco.” He paused. “Look at me.”

To his surprise, Marco looked. A look of horror stole over his face, before he shoved his hands in his pockets and gnawed at his lip. “I’m s-sorry…”

Now that really got Jean worried. Marco was shaking like a spooked horse, his eyes darting away from Jean for a moment before flitting back to give another shameful glance. He had worked himself into a state, and now he was apologising for it? To _Jean,_ of all people? Jean didn’t like what he saw. He recognised parts of it; the apologies, the shredded mix of confidence and patience, it all got dizzyingly blended together until it was too hard to separate. The fear was a new ingredient though, one that left a bitter taste in the back of Jean’s mouth. What did Marco have to be afraid of?

He took a step back, still frowning. “You don’t have to be sorry, man, honestly.” He searched every inch of Marco’s guilty face, looking for a hint as to what was going on in the other boy’s head. He found nothing. Marco was too good at hiding it- he’d probably had practice. “I just- shit, are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

“I’ll be fine… just need to get back to work…” Marco tried. His voice was getting faint again, the shrill desperation dying down into the wispy remnants of whatever had just happened to him.  

Jean snorted. “Yeah, alright. I’m getting you some water and you are sitting down.”

Marco’s eyes widened with alarm at the idea. “Jean, I-”

“No buts, sit.” He glared. “Or I will tie you to a chair.”

In all fairness to him, Marco did sit. He complained and protested, but he sat. Jean wasn’t sure what exactly Marco had going on, whether it was medical or mental or something else entirely, but he wasn’t going to stand by and watch the poor guy keel over in the middle of a stable yard. He was something of a decent person, contrary to popular belief.

Marco really did protest, however, when Jean took up his pitchfork and set about cleaning the rest of the stalls, but a quick glare and a stabbing mime with the pitchfork was enough to sit him back down again, one hand rubbing his leg with a wince as he did so. Jean frowned- did he always do that?- and carried on.

It wasn’t just to keep Marco off his feet; Jean could feel his brain trying to plummet him into panic mode, and there was nothing like manual labour for distracting. He was _teaching_ , actually _teaching_. Someone put their trust in him. He hoped he wouldn’t make them regret it.  Eleanor had said he was teaching the more apt pupils, the ones who had been riding for years and probably knew every hair on their horses’ necks, but that didn’t help him relax- if anything, it made it worse. He’d stayed up a great deal of the night working on potential lesson topics, and he’d finally decided that he wanted to put the kids through their paces but he didn’t want to kill them. It would be nice if one or two of the geeky ones liked him.

He was still thinking about it when he and Marco took some of the residents out of their stalls for tacking up. The yard was big enough, and having the horses all lined up meant it was easier for their riders to reach them. Marco was tending to Magic, as the cob was prone to biting, and Jean was trying to tack up Raven, the piebald from the showgrounds, without blurting out something stupid. He hadn’t been overly keen on Marco being too close to animals that could tread on his toes and break them if he felt another funny turn coming on, but the more he fussed the more something tugged at the back of his mind.

_He was acting like a concerned wife._

Jean flushed at the thought, and promptly shut up. He busied himself with the saddle, with the girth and the leathers and everything he knew so well he could do it with his eyes shut… but the nagging still persisted.

He had no right to worry about Marco. They fell into friendship a little awkwardly, all flailing limbs and jolted surprise, but that didn’t mean he could care so much so soon. Jesus, he’d forced the guy to sit down in his own yard and let him do all the work. What the hell was he trying to prove, bossing him around like that? He bit his lip and continued to fiddle with the girth leathers, unbuckling and rebuckling over and over. Marco might resent him for it, this white collar stranger turning up out of nowhere and telling him how to live his life and do his job…

“You okay over there?”

Jean jolted at the sound of Marco’s voice. It didn’t sound annoyed. He peered suspiciously over Raven’s saddle, but Marco was out of sight, no doubt fastening the girth around Magic’s barrel-like stomach. It was surprising how calm Marco became around any horse except Titan. “I’m fine,” Jean lied. He gritted his teeth the moment the words came out. Fine, fine, fine. That’s all he ever was, and it was never true. ‘Fine’ was just a filler word for him, the kind that he threw around to appease his father. He didn’t want to use ‘fine’ around Marco; he had a feeling he owed him that much for putting a roof over his head for the summer. That was what made him clear his throat. “Er, I’m sorry. About before.”

“Why are you sorry?”

There was a frown in Marco’s voice. _Here it goes._ Jean took a deep breath and skirted around Raven’s rump to her near side, toying with the girth straps there too in an effort to stave off the discomfort. “For being a dick and not letting you do your job.” Marco didn’t respond. Jean bit his lip again, and focused intently on the girth buckles. “I panic a little too much sometimes. I get worried, and I panic, and… I know you just wanted to get up and deal with it, but you looked like you were going to pass out. And I didn’t want you passing out on me cus I have no fucking idea what to do in that situation.” This was a little easier than he’d expected. It was probably because he wasn’t looking at Marco- eye contact always threw him off his tangents. He dropped his voice at the last part, hoping Marco wouldn’t be able to catch it. “I guess it was selfish of me, in a way.”

Because he was being selfish. There was no other word to describe it; _he_ wanted Marco to like him, _he_ wanted to be included in this world Marco had carved out for himself. Jean expected to just stride in like he’d been there all his life, and that was selfish to assume… wasn’t it?

Marco still wasn’t talking. Shit. Had he offended him? The soft “oh” that sounded remarkably close to him made his chest heavy. That wasn’t an understanding “oh”.

“W-well I don’t think it’s selfish at all. You can’t be selfish if you care like that.”

Jean closed his eyes and sighed. Marco wasn’t getting it. Of course he wasn’t. No one had the same thought process as Jean Kirschtein, it was just impossible. He turned around bit by bit, wincing like he was waiting for the full extent of Marco’s annoyance to hit him in the face, but when he looked at him he saw nothing but polite confusion. Okay. Maybe selfish _was_ the wrong word. But he really did want this boy to like him, and that was sort of inappropriate. It was meant to be strictly business, this work he was undertaking, but it was hard not to get sucked into Marco’s world of stone and hills and horses. Marco’s eyes wandered down to his lips, and Jean would have flushed if he didn’t realise his lip was bleeding with how strongly he was biting it. _Ah. That was why he was staring. Of course._

“I know, but… well, you’re probably used to whatever that was, and I overreacted, so.”

With a shrug, Jean mentally stepped back from the conversation. He shouldn’t have said anything. Now he just looked like an idiot. Marco was looking down at his shoes, chewing on the corners of his downturned mouth as he frowned, and one of his hands darted out to play with the stirrup leather idly. Jean waited a beat longer, figured the conversation was over and made to turn back. But then Marco spoke.

“Can I be honest with you?” he asked. It was barely an ask; in fact, it just came out, like Marco had blurted it without censoring his mouth.

Jean nearly dropped the stirrup he was trying to lengthen at the question. Honest? That wasn’t a good sign. If anyone was going to be ‘honest’ with him it never ended well. _He knew it. He had offended Marco in some way._ He didn’t want to have this conversation, not if it was going to be filled with brash honesty. But what could he do? He couldn’t say no. He decided to go for a startled, “Uh, sure, shoot.”

_Excellent Kirschtein. Calm and collected. This is fine._

Marco’s gaze fell down to his boots again as he fiddled with Magic’s saddle, and Jean wondered if maybe it wasn’t going to be as bad as he thought. “I… get these a lot,” Marco began. Jean frowned at the way his words seemed to jumble together and quake, like they were as nervous as his hands. “I don’t even know what ‘these’ are, but- er- anyway. What I’m trying to say is that usually someone’s first port of call is to ask w-why I have them. And… I never want to say, so it just gets them mad.”

Jean frowned. That did make sense, actually. He could imagine the frustration and anger in people who only wanted to help, and that frustration turning to resentment with every denial Marco made. He hoped that hadn’t happened too often- Marco didn’t deserve it.

“B-but you didn’t,” Marco continued, voice still fumbling, “you… you just wanted to know if I was okay. I don’t get that often. It was really nice of you.”

_Oh._

Jean could feel the sudden flush rising up from his neck. Marco… appreciated it? He _liked_ the fact that he panicked and forced him to stop? He rubbed the back of his neck and made to reply, but Marco had already spun around and pressed his head into Magic’s saddle. Was he… was he _shy_? He was embarrassed about admitting it? Jean blinked a few times, a little wrongfooted. _Marco thinks I’m nice_ , he found himself repeating in his head like an attention-starved lunatic. _He thinks I’m **nice**._

And then came the clincher.

“Thanks.” It was a tiny little squeak of a word, but Jean heard it.

He let a smile spread from one side of his face to the other, something in his stomach settling like it had just landed from a turbulent flight, and that was when he noticed the redness of the other boy’s ears. Marco was… blushing? Again? Jean let his smile grow wider.

Marco didn’t care that they hadn’t been friends that long. He liked being cared about, regardless of that. The relief was almost winding.

_He is so fucking cute._

“Wh-what?! Did I do something wrong? Oh God, sorry if I was being an idiot, I shouldn’t have said anythi-”

Oh. Marco had turned back around. Shit. Weirdly though, Jean couldn’t find it in himself to care. He just chuckled. “It’s fine… you’re just…” _Something? Interesting? Wanted?_ “You’re just fucking cute, man, I’m sorry.”

“Cute?!”

“Yeah. Cute.” Jean remembered the thoughts he’d had when they first met, when he’d seen Marco in the trailer fussing over the horses. _The highly inappropriate, pathetic thoughts he’d had. Fuck._ His smile dropped. He felt guilty even thinking about it. He hoped to God that there weren’t any mind readers around. He mentally trod them down. _No. Not allowed. Stop it. Stop thinking about that cute fucking blush of his._ “I-I think Raven’s done, so…”

Marco’s blush, if it were possible, darkened. “Y-yeah. You… go… do stuff.”

_Oh fuck I’ve made him awkward fuck my actual fucking life._

Jean didn’t have long to dwell on it; before he had the chance to blurt out anything else remotely embarrassing, a group of girls turned into the gate of the yard with riding hats swinging from their hands. “Morning Marco!” they trilled as one. Jean felt the nerves come back, breaking through the surface like pin pricks, but when he turned to Marco for guidance, the other boy was ambling off in the other direction. _Wow, thanks for the support there Marco,_ he thought with a grimace. He continued to toy with the stirrups on Raven’s saddle despite knowing that there was nothing else to do, and felt the burn of four different sets of eyes on him. He flinched. The girls weren’t nearly as intimidating as the ones he’d ridden against in the junior heats a few years ago, but they were still _almost teenage girls_ and that thought brought back the sweaty palmed memories of secondary school. Maybe that was why he was awkward around them. Who knew. After all, Jean hadn’t known he was gay for the entirety of his boarding school life- he’d dabbled.

“Goooood morning ladies!” A familiar voice trilled behind him, and when he spun around he saw the unmistakable grin of the woman from the showgrounds. She was in a long green overcoat despite the temperature and a pair of well-loved steel capped boots, painted in mud of all varying colours and consistencies. Her hair was plucked up in a haphazard ponytail, and the sad little bob of hair kept flying this way and that as she turned her head to watch the cars trundling up the little drive. “Nice to see you here early for a change!” she said in way of greeting. The girls laughed and shrugged and called out a few excuses, but Overcoat waved their excuses away. “None of that, you better go check the boards to see who you’re riding. We’ve got them all ready for you!”

The girls needed no telling twice; they all scuttled to Marco’s cottage, some tripping over their boots in earnest. Jean frowned after them. “Where’s-”

“Oh, they need to pay for their lessons, too,” she explained, untying and retying her boot laces. “We used to have a small office building, but it kinda blew over, so we just use the kitchen for now. Everyone’s welcome in Ellie’s house anyway.” Jean took a moment to realise that the woman meant Eleanor. The hand she thrust out moments later demanded to be shaken, and Jean did with a nervous grin. “Hanji Zoe, at your service!” she cawed.

Ah, that was her name. The slightly crazed one. Jean remembered. “Jean Kirschtein,” he greeted. He’d seen Hanji around the yard, but not for long enough to be properly introduced. He scratched the back of his neck and motioned to the ménage. “Eleanor told me I was, uh, taking the lesson today, so…”

“Oh, you are!” Hanji said, “but I’m here to supervise. In case you need help.” Her beam was infectious, and Jean was starting to feel his grin relax into something a little more genuine. “Don’t worry about being nervous, these girls are the nice kind. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. They’re here to learn and so long as you can teach, they’ll be here.”

Jean bit his lip. That was if he _could_ teach.

The girls came back one by one, their riding hats squashed onto their heads and some now carrying crops. They split off in order to take their waiting ride into the arena, and when a small wispy girl came over to take Raven she gave a shy little giggle at Jean after he untied the mare from her tethering ring. _Ugh. Girls._

Once they were in the ménage and mounted, Hanji strode into the centre and put her hands on her hips, grinning at the assembled class. “Good morning everyone! You’re all aware that Erwin _sort of_ hurt himself at the showgrounds last week…”

“Sort of?” one of the girls muttered. “He got his kneecap obliterated.”

“Those are fine details!” Hanji said, waving it aside, “but as he’s not able to teach, we’ve got a replacement. JEAN.”

Jean had done many nerve-wracking things before. He had done presentations at school. He’d faced a galloping horse with Levi and made it turn. He’d dared to voice an opinion at his father’s table. But this was up there as one of the more difficult things he had to do. He gulped, steeled himself, and walked into the ménage, head held high and stride strong and confident. He could do this. He’d been taught under Levi. He knew the tricks.

The girls peered down at him as he met Hanji in the centre, looking at them all in turn and giving a polite smile to every curious face. He wondered what he looked like to them, some jumped up little swot who had just happened to breeze in from a rival yard to train them. Maybe they didn’t know where he was from. He hoped not. He pushed it all down to the pit of his stomach to fester later, and cleared his throat. “Hey,” he said. He almost smacked himself for how small it sounded. “Like Hanji said, my name’s Jean and I’ll be teaching you this summer. Or, at least until Erwin’s leg heals.” There wasn’t really a response from that; each girl was still looking at him, and all seemed pretty interested. Jean let out the breath he’d been holding. “Uh… I don’t know what kind of ability you guys are, s-so I thought we could start off this lesson with going through the basics. Sound good?” One hand went up- the girl on Magic. He blinked, but nodded. “Yeah?”

“How old are you?”

He flushed. He didn’t want to get defensive with a couple of thirteen year olds, but lying didn’t seem like a good option either. He settled on the truth. “Eighteen.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

His face soured, despite the flaring of heat in his cheeks. “Thanks for volunteering. You can start us off. I want all three gaits, and we’ll see if you can do direct changes too. We’re going to be working without stirrups later on, so make the most of them while you’ve got them.”

“That’s not fair,” another girl wailed, “I’m riding Pegasus.”

“Well, you’ll have to get him listening to your leg aids then, won’t you?” he said with a smirk, and then his stomach settled.

Jean hadn’t believed Levi when the trainer had told him that teaching was second nature to some and a foreign language to others. “Not everyone can teach,” he’d said, “and an even smaller amount can teach _well_.” Jean wasn’t sure whether or not his teaching could be considered good, but it was definitely getting somewhere.

The girls weren’t as bad as he’d originally thought. They were good riders, at least; the usually plodding and bored schoolmasters came alive under their young rider’s heels and hands, and soon they were all trotting, cantering, walking around the ménage, artificial sand spraying up from the shod hooves as they changed gaits under Jean’s watchful instruction. He called out commands every now and again to keep them on the right track, and the girls listened. They didn’t argue or groan at the unfairness of having to take another circuit- they just did it, clicking their tongues and driving their heels into their horse’s flanks and they were off again. Even when Jean brought them all into the centre and asked them to cross their stirrups over the pommel of their saddles, not a single one complained with any real malice.

“Working without stirrups is an important exercise,” he explained to them, walking around each one to make sure the irons wouldn’t hit the horses’ necks as they moved around the ménage. “It helps strengthen your muscles and makes you rely on your body instead of the tack you ride in. It teaches you to sit deep in the saddle which is useful to prevent falling off after refusals. It’s also a kind of trust exercise- you can wrap your legs around your horse’s belly and stick to them like glue, and your horse needs to be okay with that. In return, they don’t get jabbed with your heels so often. It makes the whole relationship a lot more natural.” The girls hung on his word, some even leaning forwards to hear him better, and Jean flushed with the attention. Once he sent them off back around the ménage, he saw that a few were finding it hard to keep their balance. Bit by bit, the girls’ confidence grew, and soon he had them all trotting around the ménage with very little bounce and their horses’ gaits far more relaxed. He called out little jibes to those of them that needed encouragement, but made sure it wasn’t scathing or strict. The girls relaxed too, laughing at his jokes and carrying out his suggestions, and soon Jean was beaming.

He hadn’t noticed that someone besides the girls was watching him, but when he turned to catch a glimpse of the girl on Magic that was having particular trouble getting his stride smooth enough to sit to, he saw Marco leaning on the yard-facing fence. He let his smile get bigger, and raised his brows in a silent question as Magic swept past him. Marco gave a small shrug, but the smile he gave was a reassuring one. It wasn’t a smile Jean was used to seeing, but it warmed him nonetheless. He just grinned wider and turned back to the ménage, the sound of his racing pulse lost in the thunder of rolling hoofbeats.

* * *

At some point between meeting Marco’s eye and the lesson finishing, Armin arrived. As the riders clattered into the yard and dismounted with wobbly legs and beaming faces, Jean was caught up in the riptide of horses and tack and gratitude that he didn’t notice him. Marco came over to help with the same gentle smile he reserved for every kid who rode there, and it took Jean a moment to realise that the horses were getting untacked relatively quickly. Then he saw the flash of blonde and the bright blue eyes, and snaked out an arm before Armin could sidle away. “What are _you_ doing here?” he asked, yanking the other boy close to him. “You spying on me?”

“As if! I was visiting Marco!”

“Aw, breaking my heart here Arlert.”

Talk was easy. It had no agenda, no ulterior motive; they all just talked together as they put the horse’s tack away, put them in their respective stables, rubbed them down… by the time they were done, every horse was gleaming. Armin was there for Marco, it was true, but _god_ was it good to see him. Armin had a way of cheering that reminded Jean of a bulb going on in a darkened room; he put everyone in their comfort zone, and it was so nice to see Marco in such a zone. Jean had thought that the other boy had been comfortable with him, but with Armin he saw a further difference. Maybe it was because there were both of them there to boost his self-esteem, but Marco was more teasing and joking than ever. Jean wasn’t even mad when Marco teased him relentlessly about the smudge of ménage dirt on his cheek- it was just nice to hear him laugh like that.

Jean was certain he could have days like this and never get bored of them, even as they trudged to the house for dinner hours later (apparently Armin was staying). Jean couldn’t remember the last time he’d had Reiner or Bertholdt or Armin stay for dinner at his place- he’d probably been about twelve. That same feeling of missing out hit as they sat around the little wooden table, being handed so much food they could barely finish. It hit especially hard when he saw the little relieved glint in Eleanor’s eye as she sat down opposite her son. Now Jean had seen him in a panic, he started to wonder if it was a regular thing.

It was Armin’s idea to bring over some video with the two of them as kids competing. Even Jean got a glimpse of the limelight for a brief second, trotting out of the arena with Blue, and he felt his stomach twist at the memory. The quiet car ride home for failing. The stony glance. He shuddered.

The colour had a carnival brightness to it that only came with home video from ten years ago, and the screen would shake every now and again as Armin’s father got a better grip on the camcorder. It was an amateur, shaky film, but the two boys handled it like gold dust. When the smaller version of Marco set off around the course on a younger, more energetic Champ, Jean couldn’t help casting a glance in his direction. Marco’s eyes were wide as he stared at the screen, his breaths leaving him in surprised little gasps that made Armin smile, and the longer he watched the more his hands twitched in his lap. After a moment he reached up and traced the cresting neck of Champ as he took a small water jump and Jean felt a little jolt in his chest. Marco looked alive, watching the film like that. He looked as though he wanted to reach in and pull out a taste of what he’d been feeling that day; the squeak of the saddle leather, the laboured snorts of his horse, the cheers of the crowd… Marco was lost in it, ten years later. Jean suddenly felt as though he shouldn’t have been there, watching such an intimate part of Marco’s life unfold before him, but when he met Armin’s eye there was a knowing look on his face. Armin had _wanted_ Marco to react like this. But why?

It was when the scene changed that Marco’s nerves returned. Once he was walking towards the camera with his pony and his prize and a younger Eleanor laughing and smiling, there was another person who came into the frame. He put an arm around Eleanor. He leaned down to grin at Marco, rubbed his shoulder, started to speak.

“ _You did me proud out there. You make me so proud, son.”_  

_‘Son’_.

Shit.

Before Jean could turn around, Marco had bolted, ignoring Armin’s pleas to stay as he shouldered his way out of the TV room and (if the faraway slam of a door was anything to go by) out into the yard. Jean and Armin were left with the remnants of the video, of a happy family squashing together to get into a frame for a photograph and the man giving a beaming smile to match his son’s. Armin pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a sigh. “I didn’t know this was on here,” he said, to no one in particular. “I had no idea, he never had time to come to the shows, I couldn’t even remember…”

“That’s Marco’s dad?” Jean asked. It seemed a pointless question, but one that needed asking regardless.

Armin’s hand fell away from his face. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s… that’s Marco’s dad.”

Jean frowned. He hadn’t ever heard his father talk about Eleanor having a husband. He looked back to the film. Armin had found the remote, and paused it on a freeze frame of the happy family. It jumped and jolted like old VHS did, but it couldn’t quite corrupt the smiles enough to make them grimaces. “What happened?” he asked.

The family looked happy. They didn’t look like they had any problems to speak of. They were just blissfully happy, pride overflowing their veins as they looked lovingly down at their boy, their talented boy. Jean had the selfish notion that he would have liked a family like that, if only for a little while.

Armin ducked his head and gazed down at his hands, drawing his brows together in a frown. “He left,” he answered, “when Marco was sixteen.”

Jean let out a low whistle. “Shit.” He glanced at Armin, weighing up his options. He tried anyway. “Why?”

Armin looked at him then, and there was a warning in his eyes. “It’s Marco’s family, not mine.”

Jean blanched. “I know that. I just…” Armin’s eyes flashed again, and Jean knew he’d overstepped the line. “Sorry,” he muttered, turning back to the television. He had that itch in his muscles to stand up and go after Marco, an itch that ran a little deeper than Jean expected, and even as he tried to convince himself that he would be the last person Marco would want to have comfort him he found himself getting to his feet with a grunt. Armin watched him silently, one brow raised slightly and a thin line drawing the corners of his mouth. That familiar burn of consciousness appeared again in his chest, but this time Jean pushed it aside. The worry in his stomach took over the shame in his lungs.

“I won’t be long,” he promised. He started backing towards the door, but Armin didn’t say a word. He didn’t even try to convince Jean out of going after Marco; he just sighed and turned back to the television. Jean swore he saw the beginnings of a smile blooming across his face. He chose not to dwell on it.

The evening air was cold in Jinae, and hit like a punch as Jean stepped outside. Instinctively, he curled against the wind with a grimace, his teeth threatening to chatter. The horses were all bedded down comfortably, the majority of them already in the first stages of sleep. One soul that wasn’t visible was Marco. Jean cursed under his breath and started walking along the short row of stalls. One of the piebalds from the showgrounds was the only animal awake: the scruffy one, the gelding. His head was poking out from his stable, and he began to bob it up and down at the sight of Jean. _Jester_ , Jean remembered. _His name was Jester._

But Marco wasn’t in his stable. Jean gave the gelding a hefty pat and moved on. There was part of him that knew where Marco was, but the other part told him not to be so presumptuous. _You don’t know him_ , came that same cruel voice, high and scathing in his mind. _Living with a person for a week or two doesn’t mean you know them._ Still, he paused at the door of Champ’s stable, shoving a hand in his pocket and listening for signs of life that weren’t the old horse shuffling about in his bedding. Then he heard it. The dry sobs. He gulped. He really wasn’t very good at comforting people. Why had he come out to find Marco in the first place? He had no plan, no clue of what to say… he’d just felt like he _needed_ to. He grit his teeth and slid back the bolt.

He knew if he looked properly, he would find some way of talking himself out of it. When he stepped inside the stable, however, he was tempted to do exactly that. Marco had his arms around the old gelding, crying into the dirtied chestnut coat and willing his shoulders to stop shaking quite so much. Champ stood there patiently; his ears had fallen back at the sound of his owner in distress but his eyes were soft and kind. Jean could have sworn that Champ was hugging Marco _back,_ tucking his head against the boy’s shoulder and chuffing out soft snorts to accompany the sobs. When he noticed Jean, however, his head came up and his ears pricked forwards. For a second, Jean saw the gelding as he had been in the video- strong, proud, inquisitive. But then the light changed and the age came back.

He swallowed painfully. “Marco?”

That was who he was here for. Not the horses- Marco.

The sobs cut off like a thread had been severed. Marco didn’t stiffen or freeze like he had before- maybe he had no energy left to tense- instead, he simply sighed and scrubbed at his face with a sleeve. “Leave me alone, Jean.”

Jean hadn’t ever heard Marco so serious. For a moment, he was tempted to obey. But his determination to help came back, spiked and angry, and he stood his ground. In fact, he took a few more steps inside the stable. He knew what pain felt like, and he also knew what it was like trying to handle it on his own. He was going to be damned if he was going to let Marco handle it alone. He wasn’t going to be pushed away, not this time. “Marco…” he tried again.

“Don’t l-look at me.” Marco was swiping at his eyes more vehemently now, frustrated by his own emotion. “I’m such a baby, getting worked up over n-nothing…” He turned away so that he faced the back of the stable, head down and shoulders steadily slackening. “Are you here to laugh at me?” he asked.

_Ouch._ Jean was reminded, yet again, that they didn’t know each other as much as he liked to make out. Still, he tried. “No. I’m not here to laugh at you.”

He took a few more steps, approaching Marco like he would a frightened horse- no questions, no force, no anger. The three golden rules of Levi’s for dealing with difficult animals. Once he got close enough to touch, he took a breath and threaded an arm around him. Around his shoulder, obviously. He wasn’t quite so starved for affection as to go for the waist. “I just want to know if you’re okay,” he said, and he meant it.

Marco ducked his head, shook his head at Jean’s silent question. Jean knew it had been a stupid question. He wasn’t okay. _That much was obvious. Good going, Kirschtein_. Jean jolted when he felt Marco lean into him, just a little but enough for him to notice. There was a promise of heat between them now, a heat that bunnyhopped between one body and the next, and Jean wanted nothing more than to pull Marco to his chest and just hug him. That was the only form of comfort he knew; he left words for Armin and Reiner.

Marco’s shoulders shook as he gulped. “I don’t think I’ve been okay for years,” he said, his voice smaller than Jean had ever heard it. The admission seemed to make Marco shrink back into a deeper part of himself, like it had opened a whole new can of well-suppressed worms. Jean squeezed his shoulder again for good measure as Marco hiccoughed. “E-ever since…” He stopped. He couldn’t say it. Whatever it was, it struggled to get out but Marco just wasn’t ready to let it.

Jean frowned. The heat wasn’t nearly so nice when Marco was shaking the way he was. He let his guard slip and leaned right back against Marco, their heads brushing together ever so slightly. He shouldn’t have felt so comfortable so close to a boy he barely knew, he knew that, but he just… did. There was no explanation for it. He swallowed painfully and mumbled in a soft voice, “Marco… I think now’s as good a time as any.”

He felt the other boy tense. “For what?”

Jean swallowed again. Why was this so hard to ask? He traced circles, small and barely there, across his shoulder. They kept him focused. “For telling me about Titan,” he said eventually. “For telling me why you don’t ride anymore.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me.”

The reply was too quick, too sharp for it to mean anything good, but Jean’s stubborn streak won out. “Bullshit,” he said, ignoring the way Marco flinched at the language. “I saw you watching that film. It looked like you wanted to reach out and touch those people. You miss it so much, everyone can see it. It comes off of you like smoke. Nobody would have given up something they love so much without something happening to them.”

He was being blunt- painfully so, if truth be told- and he was honestly getting ready for a whack or a shouting match. But it didn’t come. Marco just went very quiet. Even the shakes subsided, if only for a moment, as he kept his gaze firmly averted from Jean’s. He closed his eyes, let out a wheezing breath, shook a little. Jean kept tracing circles, moving from his shoulder to his back as he went, and met the soft eyes of Champ as they stood there. The old horse stood quietly, not attempting to move closer or investigate; he just watched, his overlarge ears flicking back and forth like little radars on the top of his head. This horse was nurtured on Marco’s love and attention. Titan could be like this too- calm, gentle, quietly curious. Something had happened to change all that, and Marco was on the cusp of telling him. When Marco opened his eyes again, they immediately fell onto Jean.

“I had…” The words failed halfway out of Marco’s mouth. He shook his head, unsure if he could carry on. Jean gave a small smile of encouragement and squeezed his shoulder- just a little. He figured talking would break the moment. “I had an accident,” Marco managed to wrangle out. “A riding accident, with Titan, when I was sixteen.”

And then, it all made sense.

Jean wasn’t sure how he hadn’t seen it before. Marco wasn’t scared of horses, far from it; he _lived_ horses, breathed them even. It was Titan he avoided, Titan who sent him into panics and shakes and anxiety attacks. Marco only had to look at the gelding to break out in tremors. How had Jean not seen it? Was he blind? Jean began to wonder if Titan really was as dangerous as he looked. Perhaps the fire stoked in his chest was too hot, too wild, and Marco had paid the price.

Marco didn’t explain much more- speaking such a simple sentence had already reduced him to a quivering wreck- but still he tried. He told Jean how he couldn’t ride, how thinking about it made him sick, how the accident had messed him up so badly that he couldn’t even think about getting back in the saddle. Jean wasn’t sure when he hugged him, or why he demanded it so firmly. Marco’s large eyes just called for comfort, the overwhelming sympathy that surged up threatening to tug Jean’s bleeding heart right out of his chest. What hurt even more was that Marco didn’t seem to know what to _do._ He froze like a rabbit in headlights, his entire body stiff with confusion as Jean put his arms around him, and it only served to make Jean squeeze him tighter. All Marco could do was apologise, his words small and humble on the air around them, and Jean shook his head atop Marco’s shoulder. “No,” he mumbled, “I don’t know what happened to you and Titan, but you don’t have to keep saying sorry.”

Marco thawed with his words, and then to Jean’s relief there were arms wrapping around him too, gentle at first and then grasping, so tight it made him draw breath.

Marco gave great hugs; it felt safe, locked in his arms, and for a strange moment Jean thought of Marlow. He hadn’t ever really felt this safe in _his_ embrace. Was that odd? Probably not. Marlow was a different sort of person. You didn’t do safety with Marlow Freudenberg. You did danger and excitement and passion- safety was boring, in Marlow’s terms. But he couldn’t deny how nice it felt, his cheek pressed against Marco’s chest and feeling his heart’s feverish beat. He let out a sigh, even as he heard Marco sob a little. “A-and when you feel ready to talk about it, let me know, alright?” he asked, trying to skirt away from thoughts of Marlow and back onto the boy in front of him.

“I will.” It was whispered just above Jean’s head, but he heard it. It sounded like a promise. Jean was certain that Marco kept his promises- he just seemed like the type. That was why he decided to propose another promise.

Marco wasn’t overjoyed by the idea, Jean could tell. The mere mention of Titan sent the other boy’s hackles up, but Jean played it carefully. “If I can teach those snot-nosed kids how to ride, I can sure as hell get you back in the saddle,” he pointed out.

Marco frowned a lot when it came to riding. “Jean, I…I don’t know…” he said, his mouth all twisted at the corners as he thought.

“Come on, what do you have to lose?”

Marco gave him a blunt look. “My dignity?”

Jean snorted. “Psh, dignity’s overrated.”

Still, Marco dallied. He shuffled from foot to foot, scratching the back of his neck and looking around the stable. He wanted to do it- Jean could tell from the way he looked longingly at Champ- but Marco clearly wasn’t used to having a choice in anything, and certainly not something that didn’t come with a catch. Jean’s father had said that Jinae was a town of bartering, even now; people did things for others, but expected something in return, no matter how small. Jean chewed on his lip. Come to think of it, he _had_ been struggling with that schoolwork his father had thrown down for him…something about entrance exams. He hadn’t paid that much attention. He knew, however, that he had mentioned it to Marco in passing when he’d first arrived. Marco was the type to remember such things, he was sure of it.

He cleared his throat, his mind made up. “If it makes you feel any better, we could make a deal.”

Marco paused in his shuffling to offer him a frown. “What sort of deal?”

He grinned. “You offered to help me study for my exams. I’ll accept the offer, and in return I help you with Titan and riding. Everyone wins!”

Marco gave him a sceptical look. “It feels more like you win twice,” he muttered.

“ _Marco.”_

The groan that Marco emitted seconds later told Jean that he had himself a deal.

* * *

The next morning, Jean got up early. It was starting to become tuned into his daily routine; the morning didn’t bite quite so much when he pulled the covers aside and stood up with a yawn, and neither did it bring with it the muggy thickness to his head. It was becoming normal. Jean preferred it that way.

Pegasus was waiting for him when he slid the bolt of his stable door back. The grey watched him with pricked ears, the first time he’d looked interested to see him since Jean had arrived, and allowed himself to be tacked up without a single grumble of protest. The ménage awaited them, crisp with morning frost, and Jean couldn’t help the large inhale he gave as he walked Pegasus out onto the yard. There was something about the early morning, when the birds hadn’t woken up enough to start singing, that calmed Jean. In that time of day, nothing mattered. Jean didn’t think about anything- it was muted, blocked out by the yawning sun and the smell of saddle leather, and he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

He led Pegasus around on the ground at first to stretch his legs and warm his muscles, checking as usual for signs of strain or injury. The cob simply walked, head stretched low to the ground and nostrils puffing out small clouds of hot air. From somewhere behind them, Jean recognised the shrill whinny of Sina. The mare wasn’t impressed that he hadn’t been able to ride her properly since he’d arrived at the yard. Jean made a mental note to take her for a long hack later on, if his teaching permitted it.

He mounted from the ground with some difficulty, Pegasus’s bulk and height making it more of a mad scramble than anything resembling neatness, but once he was in the saddle and altering his stirrups Jean felt more at ease than he had in a long time. He’d left his phone in his room. No distractions, no opportunities for guilt to raise its ugly head… no anything. He smiled at the cob’s derisive snort at standing still too long, and gathered up his reins. “Come on, Peg, let’s get going,” he said to the gelding. With a click of his tongue, they were walking around the ménage.

Jean felt at home on a horse. It was the only place where he felt he belonged, on the back of an animal with a mind of its own and unwavering loyalty. He wondered how Marco could stand it, being denied that feeling for so long because of nerves and pain. The creak of the saddle, the jingle of the bit, the rhythmic beat of hooves- Jean craved it like nothing else. And Marco craved it too. It was painfully obvious. But Marco had _accepted_ Jean’s help. He hadn’t written it off as just some kid trying to stick his nose into his business, or doing it to put Marco in debt to him; Marco had said ‘okay’, even though he was uncomfortable about it. Jean sighed. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as this whole comforting lark as he thought he was.

Pegasus snorted again, jolting him out of his thoughts, and Jean gave a slight squeeze to the cob’s sides. He’d found a spot that hadn’t been desensitised from the years of children kicking and nudging, and as he pressed his heel against it Pegasus broke into a lazy trot, his stride smooth and languid to match his demeanour. Jean rose to the trot for an entire circuit, keeping his leg on the girth and his hands quiet to avoid throwing the cob off his stride. When he wanted to, Pegasus moved well- he could even, Jean admitted, move like a competition animal. It just took a lot to get him to that stage. Jean turned down a long stretch of the ménage and sat to the trot, digging his heels in deep to keep his body centred.

He was here all summer. He was going to get Marco riding again. He was going to be part of something. He was going to be with the horses, and not get reprimanded from walking into the house muddied and stinking of animals. He was going to live here, and _really_ live.

Pegasus tossed his head, annoyed at the sudden shortness to his rein, but Jean held firm. The cob wasn’t incapable, he was lazy. Jean wasn’t about to tolerate a lazy horse getting the better of him. He clicked again, shifted one leg behind the girth and one leg on, and as they reached the corner…

“ ** _Fly!_** ” he ordered.

And Pegasus flew.


End file.
